Sidetracked
by RussianWolf7
Summary: While on a Ministry assignment, Harry stumbles across a wasted, homeless, mess of a Malfoy in Muggle London. What to do with a Malfoy who has lost everything? Take care of him, of course! Drarry; Harry/Draco.
1. Chapter 1: Finding the Ferret

**A/N:** I almost forgot to publish this! I was halfway out the door—quite literally—when I remember it's Monday!

This guy is based on a prompt from D.E.W.P. and is die-hard Drarry all the way. I'm going to start this off as a T, but the rating will shoot up in a couple chapters. There's drinking and language for now, sexytimes later on.

Enjoy!

**Chapter One**

_**Finding the Ferret**_

**1**

Harry was wandering through the streets of Tottenham in Muggle clothes, hand on his wand. It wasn't likely he'd be taken by surprise, but the concussion he'd gotten a few months ago proved it was far from impossible. Tonight in particular he knew he wasn't paying as much attention as he should be; he was too annoyed with one Kingsley Shacklebolt, and the British Prime Minister. At first this assignment had seemed honorable, and he had been pleased to spend his nights wandering the most dangerous streets of London. He hadn't, however, anticipated on homeless duty for more than a month or two—surely the Ministry wouldn't permanently assign him off proper Auror duty forever, would they? With each passing day it seemed more and more likely.

It wasn't that the program was bad, because it certainly wasn't. Wizard and Muggle Ministers had joined together to cut down on London's homeless population, which was an entirely noble task. Several wizards from each department—except the Department of Mysteries, of course—had been assigned to patrol the streets at night, looking for homeless Muggles. They'd perform healing charms, give them a sip of Felix Felicis, then Obliviate all memories of magic. It resulted in happy, healthy, lucky Muggles who, more often than not, found themselves in a well-paying job and new apartment within a week.

Harry was very pleased this program existed. At first they had worked with partners, and he and Ron had enjoyed spending nights together helping people. Then, as the wizards had grown used to their jobs, they had been split up to cover more ground. Slowly, as the homeless population decreased, the wizards had gone back to their regular departments.

Except Harry. The longer he was kept away from the Auror department the more frustrated and annoyed he got, which made him feel guiltier with each passing night, which served to annoy him further. It continued on and on until tonight, stalking through the streets of Tottenham, kicking empty cans and startling several stray cats out of their hiding places. Not only did he want to get back to his real job, and get rid of the persistent guilt, but there were hardly any Muggles left to help. The program had been a remarkable success; not only were the Muggles they helped leading better lives but they inspired others to a better life as well. The Muggle papers were filled with percentages and statistics and some measure of confusion. There was hardly anything left to do.

That was where the real resentment came from. He didn't mind helping Muggles—in fact he liked it—but he did not enjoy spending hours traipsing through the same streets over and over again looking for people who weren't there. And, well, there was a rather unpleasant part of himself that wondered what he had done to piss off whoever had stuck him with this. Of course it looked good to have the Golden Boy helping Muggles but really, after a certain point, he'd be more useful in the Auror office, wouldn't he? How was it that he was one of the few remaining wizards on homeless duty?

So when he saw someone slumped against the wall of a particularly nasty alley, he was excited. It was wrong, of course, to be happy to run into someone this down on their luck, but he had something useful and productive to do again. So really, his motives were nothing but pure.

"Hey there," Harry called out, approaching the person. His eyes were adjusted to the darkness with a spell they had all been taught when the program had begun, but he still couldn't see the person's face, only the bottle of—was that Firewhiskey?

"Go away," the person who seemed an awful lot like a wizard slurred. Well, that was all right. It had happened before, helping magical folk.

Harry approached cautiously. That concussion he'd had a few months ago had come from a particularly well-thrown whiskey bottle, and he wasn't eager to repeat the process. "Need some help?"

"No!" the person yelled. The voice almost seemed familiar, but Harry was sure he was wrong. At least he could tell it was male, and definitely Firewhiskey. That made this easier. "'M fine! Better than I've ever been!"

Harry performed a quick cleaning spell on the ground and sat opposite the wizard. He still couldn't see his face; he must have cast a Disillusionment spell on himself. Not uncommon for homeless wizards—nobody wanted to be known as that guy who couldn't hold his life together anymore.

"Wanna talk about it?" Harry asked.

"No," the wizard slurred. "Got kicked out. 'Mbarrassmen—barrassthing—pathetic. Not telling 'nyone."

That would explain why the wizard was dressed impeccably, despite wallowing in an alley. "There's a hotel that'll give you a place to sleep for a few nights, to help you get your bearings," Harry said. "Why don't I take you there?"

"No, I'd be recogmizeded," he said. "Pictrue'll be in the paper. Laying low, that's th' way t'go." He took a swig from his Firewhiskey.

"The hotel is very discrete," Harry said. "I'd tell you some of the big names who've spent a night or two there, only that would defeat the purpose. Rest assured, nobody will know."

"No money," the wizard said. "'Storia took it all. Locked me out've Gringotts."

Harry stared. Was—did he just say Astoria? As in Astoria Greengrass or, more accurately, Astoria Greengrass Malfoy? Was this _Draco Malfoy_?

"Goblins're pricks," he muttered. "'Nyway, go 'way. Don't wanna say somethin' stupid."

"It's fine," Harry said distractedly, then gathered himself. Whoever it was needed help. Even if it was Malfoy. "I'm here to help, not to spread your secrets around. Just one night in the hotel, would you? I'll sign you in under my name, pay for a few nights, and set you up with a supply of Polyjuice Potion so no one will recognize you."

"No," he said. "No, gonna stay here, with m' whiskey."

Harry rested his hand on his wand inconspicuously and whispered, "_Finite Incantatem_." The Disillusionment charm fell away and yes, against all odds, Draco Malfoy was sprawled before him, drunk as all get-out, having been kicked out of his house. "How about I stay with you, then?" Harry asked. This was standard protocol, especially with those who looked like they'd had enough to drink they'd pass out soon enough they could be brought to the hotel. "You haven't got to talk to me, I'll just sit here with you. Getting kicked out is rough. You've got to be lonely."

Malfoy considered. ""ve been alone fer a while," he said. "Suppose you could stay there. No questiotions, though," he added, pointing the whiskey at Harry.

"Nope, no questions," he said. "Just company."

"What day's it?" Malfoy asked.

"Thursday," Harry replied. "Er, Friday morning, I guess."

He heaved a great sigh. "Three days 've been gone," he said, which seemed wrong, because how could his clothing still be so perfect after three days on the streets? "Spent the first night 'n France, then Swizt—Swizter—Alps, kept getting kicked out 'f those, too." He threw the bottle at the wall just to the right of Harry, who flinched as it shattered. "_My_ insestral manners, loss' t' vidnicvite cunt." Malfoy eyed him through watery, red eyes. "Know 'f 'ny barrsitrees?"

"Yeah, ," Harry said, handing him the card for a wizard barrister. "He'll take you on pro bono, as long as you can prove you don't have any assets hidden away."

Malfoy remained silent for a moment. "Secret vault," he conceded. "Shhh. Don't tell 'nyone."

"No, of course not," Harry said. "Would you like to go to Gringotts, then, and get some money?"

"_No_," Malfoy said firmly. "Golbins, they've got m' name, m' face, call 'Storia if I show up."

"If you give me your key, I'll go in for you," Harry offered. Also protocol.

He shook his head. "Y'need m' fignerprints. An' m' wand. Can't show m' fignerprints without m' face."

That was true. "You're sure you won't let me take you to that hotel?" Harry tried again. "They'll let you stay for free for three days; the Ministry subsidizes them in exchange for hospitality."

"_No hotels!_" Malfoy yelled, leaning forward, then slumping back against the wall. He looked around. "Where'd m' whiskey go?"

"You finished it," Harry said.

"More, then," he said, trying to stand and unable to. "Get me some? 'll pay y'back, 'm good fer it."

"It's the middle of the night," Harry said gently. "All the liquor stores are closed."

Malfoy's eyes widened in panic. "No whiskey?"

Harry shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

"_Bloody fucking Merlin balls!_" he yelled, remarkably clearly. ""ve been drunk fer days, don' wanna b' sober. 'd have t'think."

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather ride out your hangover in a hotel?" Harry asked. "If you've really been drunk for three days, it's not going to be pleasant."

Suddenly Malfoy was tearing up, and Harry was eerily reminded of their sixth year. "'Storia cleans up after me," he said mournfully. "'Course, 'd only drink when she w's diffiluct, so it'd take a while, and, really, the house 'lves did it, but she sent 'em." He paused. "I think. Hard to rebember."

"The hotel has specific wizards on staff to help with exactly that," Harry said. "They won't hold your hair back or anything, but room cleanings are five times a day, and the bathroom has a spell on it to avoid any vomit-splatter."

Malfoy snorted. "She never held m'hair back," he said. "She stopped touching m' yeeeeeaars ago."

Harry did some quick calculations. He had read about their marriage in the papers when it happened, which was—two years ago? Three? If Malfoy was accurate, which was a pretty big if, given how drunk he was, that'd mean they hardly had any good time with her. That was a shame.

"Maybe I sh'd hire a protistute t' take care 'f me," Malfoy mused.

Harry closed his eyes in frustration. If he had ever thought this was going to be easy, that dashed any hopes. "No, don't do that," Harry said. "If you don't want to go to a hotel, I could take you to St. Mungo's. They'll treat you very well, but make you go through an addiction program afterwards, though."

Malfoy waved a hand dismissively. "Nooo," he groaned. "Haven't got 'n addi—dick—shun. Jus' tryin' t' ferget th' little bitch-cunt."

"What are your plans, then?" Harry asked. "Staying drunk for the rest of your life?" That, getting angry with those he was trying to help, was most certainly not protocol, but neither was finding Malfoy in the gutter.

"Tha'ss—tha'ss _brilliant_," he said, eyes lighting up. "Where's m' whiskey?"

"You finished it, remember?"

Malfoy slumped back. "Oh, yeah." His eyes were starting to get heavy, and Harry thought he might be nearing passing out. Then he started to cry legitimately, big, blubbery tears sliding down his pale face. "Don' wanna b' sober," he said. "'M gonna cry if 'm sober."

Harry sighed. "It's okay," he said. "It's going to be fine. We'll get you to the hotel where you can sleep this off, get you in touch with that barrister and get your properties back, and then you can move back home."

"No," Malfoy said. "Emmmtee houses. Don' wanna b' 'lone. 'Storia's awful, but at leasss she's there, even if it's juss yellin'."

Harry pitied Malfoy. How long had he been this miserable? How could he live with a woman who made him miserable just for the sake of not being alone? "Come home with me, then," he said, which was absolutely, one hundred percent not protocol. "I'll get you back on your feet. You won't be alone." He flinched and sighed a little. "I'll hold your hair back, All right? I can't just leave you out here."

Malfoy eyed him again. "Y'look f'milyar," he said. "What'd y'say yer name's?"

"Harry," he replied, grateful for the rule that stated he was never allowed to give out his last name, regardless of how many other rules he had broken. "I've got a spare room with its own bathroom, hangover potions, strong tea and, most importantly, a roof over your head. Besides, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one willing to nurse you back to health on your own terms."

Malfoy sighed. "Juss for t'night," he said. "Bed's better than th' ground, esspeshully when there's no whiskey. Tomorrow I'll get more whiskey an' go."

"That's fine," Harry said, knowing he wouldn't be going anywhere except the bathroom for at least a day.

"Alrigh' then. 'Parrite—appria—"

"Apparate," Harry supplied. He got up and walked over to Malfoy, taking him firmly by the arm. "Ready?"

"Yeah, sure," Malfoy said. "T's good t'be touchin' someone 'gin."

The admission that he was so lonely just a hand on an arm was enough to make him feel better was so wretchedly pathetic that Harry felt better about taking him home. He needed someone to care for him, which the hotel wouldn't provide, and would be all too clinical at St. Mungo's. "Okay, here we go."

"Whee," Malfoy said dolefully.

And they were off.


	2. Chapter 2: Housing the Homeless

**A/N:** I'm so sorry this is up so late! I have a flu/sickness thing and I only just woke up at eight-thirty at night because my dad woke me. I had one nightmare after another after another and I tried to get up earlier but everything was all that fever-y and weirdness where you can't tell if you're awake or not or what's real or anything and I tried to get out of bed and publish then but I couldn't figure it out.

Anyway, I'm relatively lucid now (sort of), enough to post the chapter. I forgot to say this on Monday, and I'm sure today's confusion isn't helping, but this is going to be on a MWF publishing schedule! Eighteen chapters total (I think, I'm still kind of delirious) of Drarry goodness.

I'm going to sign off because I literally cannot stop shaking or shivering (and not for fun reasons). Enjoy the chapter, my friends!

**Chapter Two**

_**Housing the Homeless**_

**2**

Harry apparated them directly to the bathroom, which was very much the right move. As soon as they landed on the floor Malfoy leaned over and threw up, probably randomly, into the toilet. Harry started to leave so he could owl Kingsley and tell him he wouldn't be in for a day or two, that he'd found a particularly desperate case that needed his full attention, but Malfoy grabbed his ankle.

"No," he said, then coughed up what looked like a partially digested carrot. "Y'said y'd stay."

Harry was a little surprised. He hadn't thought Malfoy _actually _wanted company, especially while he was in such a state. "Okay," Harry said, sitting next to him. "I'm here, don't worry."

"M' hair," he said, then threw up again.

"You want me to hold it back?" Harry asked dubiously. He didn't really see the point; Malfoy's hair was as it always was, and nowhere near long enough it was in danger.

"Said y'would."

"Okay," he repeated. "Sure, of course I will." He brushed Malfoy's hair off his forehead, sliding his fingers through the pompously smooth strands.

"An' m'back," Malfoy added, awfully authoritatively for someone leaning into a toilet. "Mum'd pat m'back when I's sick." He retched again. "Least when I was little. Stopped b'the time I's—" He was cut off by more vomit.

Harry's heart ached for him. Malfoy had at least had a few years of physical affection before it was pulled away; was that better or worse than what Harry had been through? He scooted forward so he could keep one hand on his hair, and rubbed his back soothing with the other.

Malfoy sighed contentedly.

Then he threw up again.

Harry closed his eyes. This was going to be a long night.

**3**

Malfoy passed out after an hour or so of being sick, interrupted only by the sips of water Harry made him drink. Harry levitated him to the bed, covered him with a throw, and plodded down to his study. It was already starting to get light out. Harry despised not getting to bed before the sun came up. Still, he wrote the letter to Kingsley and sent it off with Brian, the owl Hagrid had gotten him as a graduation gift. It was the weekend, and he did have weekends off, but he didn't trust that Malfoy wouldn't still be incapacitated come Monday. And hey, maybe Kingsley would decide he could go back to being an Auror after this, considering how over-the-top this was, even if he left out certain names. Then again, maybe he'd think Harry was so devoted to the cause he'd never want to leave.

Very soon, Harry would need to have a talk with Kingsley.

Harry desperately wanted to go to bed. He wanted to crawl underneath the covers, snuggle underneath the blanket Mrs. Weasley had knitted for him as a housewarming gift, close his eyes and go to sleep. He wouldn't be on his feet, he wouldn't be in any danger, he wouldn't be trying to talk down loud, drunken Muggles—or, in tonight's case, wizards.

Instead, he wrote to Larry Hollingberry, his barrister friend. He was clever, didn't mind taking on a pro bono, and, most importantly to Malfoy, discrete. He explained as much as he knew, emphasizing access Malfoy's secret vault, taking inventory of his vault shared with Astoria Greengrass before she could get their things in hiding, and getting at least one of his properties back so he could go home. Realistically, tallying their shared assets as quickly as possible was most important, but he was not pleased with the idea of housing Malfoy for an extended period of time.

Harry tried to call Brian to him before remembering he was sent off to the Ministry. He sighed heavily and trudged over to his fireplace. He stuck his head in the fire and looked out into Larry's study.

"Merlin, Larry, what're you doing up at this hour?"

The wizard jerked around, drawing his wand and staring at the fireplace. Then he lowered his wand and put a hand over his heart. "Harry, you prick, don't scare a man like that."

"Then put more security on your fireplace," Harry replied. "Maybe next time I won't be able to enchant myself through with a single spell."

Larry glared at him. Then they both burst into laughter. "Sorry, mate, I haven't slept yet."

"Neither have I," Harry replied. "Still stuck on bloody night duty. Anyway, I've got a case for you, and I meant to send Brian, only he's off at the Ministry."

"Yeah?" Larry asked, coming over and squatting by the fireplace. "Muggle or wizard?"

"Wizard," Harry said, handing him the note through the fire. "It's all written out here. Like I said, I meant to owl you."

Larry skimmed the letter, eyebrows climbing slowly. "The Malfoys have spit up? I guess those rumors were true."

Harry frowned. "Rumors?"

"Yeah, they've been flying around for ages," Larry replied. "Supposedly he's gay, and she's been taking lovers in the south of France for years."

"Oh," Harry said, surprised. Well, not surprised that Malfoy was gay. Everyone at Hogwarts had known but by the time they graduated, it had sort of slipped through the collective mind, and his arranged marriage had dispelled any lingering notions. Actually, when he thought about it, it wasn't that surprising Astoria was cheating on him, if he couldn't get it up for a woman. "Maybe he won't want his French manor, then. You can talk to him about that."

"I'll pencil him in for Monday, then, shall I?" Larry asked, walking over to his desk. "Three-fifteen?"

"Brilliant, thanks," Harry said. "D'you think you can get Malfoy Manor or the Switzerland manor back before then?"

Larry laughed. "Don't want the prat staying with you? I'll see what I can do."

"And some Galleons," Harry suggested. "That'd be handy."

"Yes, of course," Larry said. "And I'll lockdown their shared vault, as well as all residences so she doesn't run off with anything. Amazingly, I believe I may have done this before, once or twice. Thanks for the advice, though. Couldn't get on without the Golden Boy hanging over my shoulder."

"Oh, shove off," Harry said with a smile. "We're on for dinner Wednesday, right?"

"Yup, see you then," Larry said.

Harry pulled himself back to his own office and wiped soot out of his hair. He wasn't sure how Malfoy would take to having this all done behind his back, but he was clearly in no position to do it himself. He'd no doubt be even more upset that it was Harry Potter who was helping him, but if he was going to get completely and utterly trashed, he should be pleased to get any help at all, especially from his school days enemy.

Somehow, Harry doubted he would see it that way.

In any case, he could now go to bed, and that was the important part.

**4**

Harry was woken up by an unpleasant, very familiar voice shrieking at him.

"_You!_ _What am I doing in your house? What have you done with me?_"

Harry groaned and sat up, blinking blearily as he put on his glasses. "I haven't _done_ anything to you, Malfoy," he said. "I found you in a back alley in Tottenham, drunk off your ass and homeless, and so I brought you home with me, held your hair back and rubbed your back while you threw up—which you asked me to do, stop giving me that look—and put you to bed."

Malfoy was furious. Absolutely, completely, burning-down-the-house-with-sheer-force-of-will, cursing-Harry-with-an-Unforgiveable-Curse-or-possibly-all-three-at-once, furious. "I never asked for your help, _Potter_," he spat. "I was doing just fine on my own. I'm not homeless, I've got three perfectly suitable mansions at my dispense. I was out for a night of relaxation with some friends from the Department of Mysteries. Maybe I had too much to drink; I don't remember exactly, which leads me to believe I did. Whatever I told you, forget it. I was clearly spouting nonsense."

Malfoy worked for the Department of Mysteries? How had Harry not known he was a Ministry employee? Yes, the Department of Mysteries was, well, mysterious, but he thought he would have known if _Draco Malfoy_ was working there.

"You told me—"

"I don't care what I told you," Malfoy snapped. "I didn't mean it. I was drunk. The bloody Golden Boy might never over-imbibe, but not all of us are—" He broke off and threw up on the antique carpet. Harry sighed. "Shove off," he said weakly. "Too much Firewhiskey, that's it. How did you even find me?"

"MuggleWatch," Harry said.

Malfoy groaned. "Merlin, I forgot about that."

"So you were out with friends," Harry said, magicking the sick away, including the bits that had gotten down Malfoy's front. "In Muggle Tottenham?"

Malfoy frowned. "I don't know about Muggle neighborhoods, a friend suggested the bar."

"Which bar?" Harry challenged.

"I don't know!" Malfoy yelled. "I was drunk! How many times do I have to tell you that? Was me throwing up on your floor not clear enough? I don't remember anything from last night!"

"Let me shed some light on the situation," Harry said. "I found you in Alley 12 in Tottenham, the worst part of London. You were on the ground, drinking Firewhiskey out of the bottle, yelling about how you'd been kicked out three days ago and had nowhere to go and no money to pay for a hotel. You refused any help until I offered to take you in, which you only agreed to if I'd hold you hair back while you threw up, because Astoria hadn't touched you in years." Malfoy was growing paler and paler. "I've got you an appointment with Lawrence Hollingberry for Monday at three-fifteen. He's an expert in this sort of case. He's already working on getting your properties back, as well as access to your vaults and making sure Astoria isn't hiding anything away. His card is—hang on—" Harry shuffled through his bedside table. "Here."

Malfoy took it with a look of great distaste, holding onto the very edge of the card. "I don't need a barrister," he stated. "All that, what I apparently told you, it's not true."

"Then give me back the card and I'll tell Larry you don't need him," Harry said innocently.

Malfoy sneered at him, but tucked the card into his pocket. "You tell no one about this, Potter. _No one_. I'm leaving now, and I don't expect to see you again."

"No, Malfoy, stop," Harry said, jumping out of bed and laying a hand on his shoulder. He whipped around, eyes once again furious.

"What?" he snapped. "Going to humiliate me? Turn me into a joke? I don't think so, Potter."

"Stay here," Harry said. "You wouldn't go to the hotel MuggleWatch works with, you don't have the money to afford one yourself, and I won't let you back on the streets just to drink and sleep in alleys."

Harry thought the force of Malfoy's glare might be enough to actually vaporize him. "I can handle myself, thank you very much," he said coldly. Then he turned to the side and threw up again.

Harry magicked it away. "It's my job, okay? Nothing more. At least wait until I hear back from Larry about your houses. He's really good, I'm sure you'll have at least one by the end of the day."

Malfoy continued to glare at him. "You won't hold me hostage," he said. "Nor will I set foot in that bloody MuggleWatch hotel, it's humiliating."

"At least let me loan you some money, then, for a proper hotel," Harry said. "A loan, mind you, not a handout. You can pay me back whenever you find yourself with the funds."

The glare softened into a mere frown. "A loan," he repeated. "Because your job requires it of you, because it is forced onto you."

Harry blinked. "Yes," he said. "Exactly. I could get fired if they found out I didn't help you."

Malfoy glanced to the side. "All right then. I suppose I could accept that."

Harry tapped a particular wooden board of the floor and it slid aside, revealing a box filled with Muggle money, his emergency money. "How much do you need?"

"How fast does your barrister work? Will I truly be home within a day or two?"

"Yes," Harry said. "Maybe even today."

"I'd imagine a thousand Galleons would do, for a night," Malfoy replied. "How much is that in Muggle money?"

Harry stared at him. "No!" he exclaimed. "I don't—the Ministry, I mean, I get paid bollocks as it is without subsidizing your ridiculous standards. I can give you—" He thought quickly. "Two hundred pounds. That's about forty Galleons."

"Two hundred?" Malfoy yelled. "That's bloody pocket change, I can't do—" Another break to be sick, and Harry magicked it away again. They didn't bother acknowledging it. "Where am I supposed to stay for forty bloody Galleons? _Brews and Stews_?"

"Oh, come off it," Harry snapped. "You know bloody well this is out of my own pocket and you'll never sink low enough to acknowledge you needed my help long enough for me to loan you money, rendering any repayment impossible. You also know it's not Ministry policy to take vagrants home and spend hours with them on the bathroom floor, holding their hair and rubbing their backs because that's what their mums used to do. You're not going to stay in a wizarding hotel because you wouldn't dare to be seen in your current state, and inexpensive Muggle hotels are cheap by our standards. That'll get you through two nights. Take my money or stay here. Your choice."

Malfoy's cheeks were flaming and his eyes were molten steel. "I'll do neither, not if you address me that way."

"No," Harry said. "Policy dictates making sure everyone, Muggle or wizard, has a roof over their head and food on their plate. I'm making sure of that. And, since I know who you are, I can keep tabs on you. Larry'll get you back home but until he does, you're my responsibility."

All the fight went out of Malfoy. His shoulders sagged, his eyes dropped and he seemed to shrink several inches. "Fine," he said numbly. "Two hundred it is. And I will pay you back. I'm not taking any hand outs, especially from you. This barrister of yours, he'll get in touch with me? How will he know where I'm staying?"

"Tell me, and I'll pass it along," Harry said.

Malfoy sighed. "I don't know any hotels in Muggle London at all, let alone budgeted ones. Don't you dare suggest MuggleWatch."

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "Arriva Hotel. It's a few blocks away. I'll throw in an extra fifty pounds for food, which is way more than you need, but given your spending history, I imagine even that will cripple you." He took out the money and held it out. "Come on, Malfoy. Just take it."

He did. "Where's my wand?"

Harry grabbed it off his bedside table. "Here. I didn't want you accidentally cursing anyone in your sleep. Or, um, purposefully cursing anyone in your sleep. Or trying to apparate. Or do anything. If I give this back to you, do promise to act like a Muggle? No magic. None at all."

"I promise," Malfoy said dutifully. "I don't feel safe without my wand. I won't use it unless absolutely necessary." His expression changed from helpless to fury. "Like if Astoria shows up."

"No, not like if Astoria shows up," Harry said. "If she does, apparate here. It's under the Fidelius Charm, among others. She won't be able to get in."

Malfoy gave Harry an odd look. "You trust me with that?"

"I didn't have much choice, not the way you were acting," Harry said. "Malfoy, promise me you'll behave."

He grimaced. "Don't say it like that. But fine, I promise."

"Good." Harry handed him his wand. "You won't be able to Floo from your hotel, so I'll stop by later tonight after I've heard from Larry. What name should I ask for?"

"Hmm, Astoria knows my aliases," Malfoy mused. "Eli Evans, I suppose. That's as good a name as any."

"Right," Harry replied. "I'll be in touch."

"Right then." Malfoy fidgeted for a moment. "How do I leave here? Took me ages to find your room."

"Down the stairs. The front door's right there," Harry said.

"Right. See you later, then."

"Later."


	3. Chapter 3: Bothering the Boy

**A/N:** I'm a little less dead today! If you'll note I'm publishing at a (quasi) normal time because I woke up at a (quasi) normal time! I'm still kind of blurry, but I'm no longer actively dying, so I'll take what I can get.

I'm really glad y'all are liking this story! I'm quite fond of it myself, and it's always good to know I haven't gone crazy and started publishing total nonsense :P So, as always, enjoy!

**Chapter Three**

_**Bothering the Boy**_

**5**

As dictated by his assignment, Harry slept through the day. He was scheduled for dinner with Ron and Hermione but begged off, claiming he needed to catch up on sleep. Ron, who had long ago been assigned back to Auror duty, still remembered the sleepless nights and promised Harry it was no problem. They both wished him luck and rest, and Hermione reminded him of the relaxation tea she had bought him at the beginning of the assignment. Harry said he'd get on that just as soon as he took a nap.

A far more accurate statement would have been: He was scheduled for dinner with Ron and Hermione but begged off because he didn't trust himself not to tell them about Malfoy. Part of it was his inner gossip dying to come out and play, but mostly he was legitimately tired and was worried something would slip out by mistake. From the moment he woke up it was all he could think about.

He had found _Draco Malfoy_ on the streets last night. He had spent an hour with _Draco Malfoy_, comforting him as he threw up. He had given _Draco Malfoy_ money. He had set up an appointment for _Draco Malfoy_ with Larry. It felt like a dream brought on by an extreme lack of sleep, only the bathroom reeked of sick, the bed was an utter mess, and Malfoy's appointment was in his calendar, which was a bit off. He wasn't in charge of his calendar; it was magicked to add any and all engagements, color-coded for ease. Another gift from Hermione, perhaps the best she had ever given him. It used to be filled with meetings and raids and paperwork, but these days it was confined to the dark blue of Muggle duty and the occasional orange reminding him of time with Ron.

But now, on Monday at three-fifteen, _Appt. w/L.H. & D.M._ was penned down in Slytherin green. It was odd, no doubt. Had he said he was going to attend and forgotten? He didn't think that particularly likely; there was no way Malfoy would let him come. Or any reason for him to. Maybe it was there so he'd remind Malfoy, and bully him into going, if necessary. Maybe he was to escort Malfoy to Larry's office and make sure he didn't disappear before he could conduct his business. That would be all right, he supposed, except for the part where his days had become nights and he wasn't keen on being awake at three in the afternoon.

Harry had dinner—breakfast, really, but it was seven-thirty at night and was not going to call his meal breakfast even if he was having toast, a bowl of cereal and orange juice, no matter what the Ministry assigned him to—and went back to his office. The form he needed to fill out, MW-42, was waiting for him, but he thought that, just this one time, he might let it go. They were supposed to log all Muggles and wizards they helped so they could track whether or not the changes were permanent, but it didn't feel right to write up Malfoy. He was humiliated enough as it was, or at least he felt he was, and Harry wasn't going to make it worse by parading him in front of the Ministry.

Despite being off for the weekend he stayed in his office, seating himself in the sort-of comfortable office chair with an old book. He would have preferred the sitting room, but he was waiting for Larry, and his only fireplace in the Network was in his office. The later it got the more concerned he was, but just before eleven, Larry's head popped into the fire.

"Hey, Harry," he said amicably. "How's Malfoy doing?"

"Woke me up by screaming in my face," Harry said, and Larry chuckled. "It took ages, but I convinced him to take some Muggle money and stay in a hotel a few blocks away, and to keep his appointment with you."

"Not half bad," Larry said appreciatively. "I've got news for him; have you got a paper and quill handy?"

"Yeah, go on," Harry said.

"I got Malfoy Manor back with no trouble. It has his name on it after all, it was like taking candy from a baby. I couldn't unlock either his private or shared vaults, but at least that Astoria woman won't be able to get in, either. I've got a friend from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement digging through records and tracking down anything that's mysteriously vanished in the past few months. It might amount to nothing, but if she was planning this, she could've been slowly moving things for a while."

"Brilliant as always," Harry said with a smile.

"Never anything but," Larry replied. "Does he have any money squirreled away at the Manor?"

"Haven't the slightest idea," Harry said. "Knowing the Malfoys, probably."

"Let's hope so, I wouldn't want you cleaning yourself out for that git. But seriously, if he's got nothing, I can find a loophole or two and get a couple Galleons out of his vault."

"I'll let him know."

"Anyway, I've got to go," Larry said. "Ellie's calling, saying something about dishes left out." He paused. "Oh, and she says hi. And that I need to go chisel eggs off the pan. You'll get all of this to Malfoy, right?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "Give my love to Ellie."

Larry scrunched his face. "Don't think she's in the mood for love, but I'll pass it along." He disappeared and Harry grabbed his notes and headed out. The sooner Malfoy got back to his Manor the sooner he'd stop spending Harry's money. And, he hoped, the sooner he'd stop being an absolute prat, though that wasn't particularly likely given his history. The hotel was close, closer than he'd remembered, and there was still a concierge working despite the late hour.

"Can you give me the room number for Eli Evans?" Harry asked.

The man raised an eyebrow, nearly identical to Malfoy's expression. "We do not just give out room numbers, sir."

Harry huffed. "Then could you buzz him for me? Let him know Harry's here?"

"Are you aware of the time, sir? It is eleven-fifteen. If our guests wished to be disturbed, they would have given you their room number themselves."

"He didn't know it when he left, that's the point," Harry said angrily. "Look, I don't care about your rules or proper procedure, just let him know I'm here, okay? Buzz him, give me his room number, let a charging Erum—elephant run through the halls, just let me talk to him." That slip about the Erumpent wasn't good, but it seemed the concierge had more important things than Harry supposedly mangling the word elephant.

The concierge sniffed. "I will buzz him." He consulted a list, picked up the phone and dialed. "Sir, there is—yes, I know it's quite late, I tried to tell your _friend_ but he simply wouldn't listen." He looked at Harry. "What is your name, sir?"

"Harry," he repeated angrily.

"One Harry, no last name." His eyebrow raised again. "Very good, sir." He hung up. "Mr. Evans resides in 502. The elevator is broken, I'm afraid you'll have to use the stairs."

"Great, thanks," Harry said irritably. He stomped up five flights and down several misleading hallways before finally finding the right door. He checked himself just before slamming a fist on the door and knocked politely instead. Bloody hell, it was an only obnoxious concierge, it was hardly the end of the world.

The door opened and Malfoy leaned against the frame, physically blocking Harry from entering the room. "Yes?" he asked.

"You've got Malfoy Manor back," Harry said bluntly. "No money, all your vaults are locked. An investigation into any of Astoria's potential hidden assets has begun."

Malfoy let a small smile grace his face. "Thank Merlin, I don't think I could stand spending a night in this squalor."

Harry glanced over his shoulder. The room was small but spotless. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I didn't report you to the Ministry," he said. "The MW-42, I didn't file one on you. Protecting your privacy and all."

"As well you should," Malfoy said. Not a hint of a thank you.

"Have you got any money at the Manor?" Harry asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. "If you haven't, Larry can—"

"I am equipped," Malfoy cut in. Then he paused. "Suppose this is the last I'll be seeing of you, or are you required to check in?"

"Nope," Harry said happily. "You're back at home, you've got food and money, you're good to go. No form, no follow-up."

"I have never been more thankful for a lack of paperwork," Malfoy replied. Bloody _hell_ he was infuriating. "I suppose I've got to check myself out of this dump. What a waste of time."

Harry was extremely displeased to have to walk down all five flights of stairs with Malfoy, but no words were exchanged, neither thank-yous nor curses, so at least it wasn't entire unbearable. He didn't bother to wait for Malfoy to check out, and he quickly started back to Grimmauld Place. He'd take a bath, he decided. A long, hot bath with a soothing potion mixed in for good measure. Merlin he was glad to have Malfoy out of his hair.

Then, of course, there was a very loud, very wizard, very familiar-voiced swear, immediately followed by, "Hey, Potter! Wait up!"

Harry groaned. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

"I can't apparate to the Manor," he said, catching up. "Astoria must have put a charm up, or whoever your barrister's got on the case. I need to use your Floo."

No asking, just demanding. "Fine," Harry snapped. "Be quick about it, would you?"

"I don't believe there is a way to Floo slowly," Malfoy said smoothly. A little quieter, a little more seriously, he asked, "Astoria's banned from the Manor, right?"

"I'd assume so," Harry replied. "Larry just said he'd gotten it for you, he didn't specify."

"I don't fancy another row," Malfoy said. "One of the many benefits of leaving her; I no longer have to listen to her insufferable rants."

"Thought you said you got kicked out," Harry said meanly. He knew he shouldn't push it, but he was tired and irritable and still on bloody MuggleWatch and he wanted his bath.

"Did I say that last night?" Malfoy asked. "My mistake. I came home to find a young, virile French boy in my bed. She may sleep with whomever she pleases, but she shall not do it under my roof, and certainly not in my bed."

"Heard you were bent anyway," Harry said, and that was a genuine mistake. It just slipped out without any thought to tact or feelings or decorum or anything.

Yet Malfoy just smirked. "I never said he was _her_ young, virile French boy, just that he was in my bed. In fact, I specified that she may not bring her conquests home."

Harry was shocked into silence for a moment. "So you left her because you were having an affair?" he asked. "Seems like it'd have to be pretty serious to break up a pureblood marriage."

Malfoy laughed lightly. "Oh, no, he meant nothing to me. I don't even remember his name. Francoise, perhaps? Anyway, the point is she started going on and on about how if she was condemned to the Villa then I should be as well, despite the obvious inopportune overlap. Really, I think she was just upset I could get a younger, sexier shag than she could."

Harry was almost certain that the entire conversation had been a lie from the moment Malfoy said he had left instead of being kicked out. But he didn't really care, and let Malfoy go on with whatever he wanted. "I'm surprised you waited to split up before having a kid," Harry said. "Isn't that what pureblood marriages are all about? Producing an heir?"

Malfoy's face darkened. "It became clear quite early on that would not be the case for us."

"Oh?" Harry asked, almost interested.

"We were not compatible," he said delicately. "Nor did we particularly like each other. I don't believe we tried more than a handful of times. Still, divorce is frowned upon in high society, so we attempted a truce." He laughed, a bit darkly. "I'm surprised it lasted as long as it did. Going through a divorce will hardly be pleasant, but at least she'll be out of my life."

Harry might have felt sorry for him were he not so clearly casually indifferent. It was a front, Harry was certain, but he had no reason to bother with any further questioning. "Why do you think the Floo will work when apparating didn't?"

Malfoy's brow creased, then immediately smoothed out. "It's much easier for me to manipulate the Floo Network, especially my own gate, than it is for me to remove whatever is blocking me from a distance. If I absolutely cannot get in, I shall return to that blasted hotel, seeing as I'm already paid up, and have your barrister fix it in the morning."

"You can do that yourself, you know," Harry said, turning down his walkway. "I gave you his card, it's got his Floo address on it."

"He works on a Sunday?" Malfoy asked, surprised.

"On special occasions he's been known to," Harry said. He led them upstairs to his office. "Go ahead, then. Give it a go."

Malfoy grabbed a handful of Floo powder, threw it into the fireplace, and said, "Malfoy Manor!" The green flames whipped around, and then he was gone. Harry realized he had no way of knowing if it had worked or if he'd ended up at another fireplace entirely, but it was no longer his problem.

**6**

Harry was woken in the middle of the morning by a very persistent eagle cawing at his window. He groaned, shuffled over and opened the window. The eagle landed on the sill and held out its leg. Attached was a note and a small coin purse. Confused, Harry took them, and the eagle soared off without waiting for a reply.

_Potter—_

_The remains of the Muggle money, as well as Galleons to cover what little I did spend._

—_Malfoy_

Harry opened the coin purse. It was indeed filled with money. He didn't know why he expected an apology to pop out, or even how that would work, since apologies weren't physical items, but he was very tired and annoyed and he wanted a damned thank you. He opened the floorboard, dumped the money in, and tossed the note into the fireplace. He debated whether or not to burn the coin purse as well before deciding it might come in handy some day. He threw it in the closet and got back into bed.

_Merlin_, Malfoy was getting to him. He shouldn't have been surprised, that was stupid, but in the four years since he'd graduated, he had managed to forget just how incredibly obnoxious Draco Malfoy was. Harry had done so much for him, went above and beyond, and Malfoy just didn't give a shit. No thank you, no apology, just a cold note and paying back his loan.

Harry stared angrily at the ceiling. The thing was, when he was drunk, he had been rather sweet, in a pathetic sort of way. Harry thought it was quite likely he would have latched on to anyone and his presence had been an accident, but even while throwing up and passing out he had been nicer to him than ever before. If only Malfoy was constantly trashed he'd be an entirely reasonable person.

The other thing was that he had opened up, sort of. No doubt most of what he said on their short walk was a lie, but Harry was fairly certain the bit about the French man was true, as well as his failed relationship with Astoria. It was possible he had just been making up the man in his bed to prove how spectacular he was at getting laid, but it hadn't seemed like it. And why would he go around bragging that he and Astoria had been incapable of having sex good enough to bother trying for the one thing they were obligated to do?

The most important thing, though, was that none of this mattered. No doubt he would never see Malfoy again unless they crossed paths at the Ministry, though he suspected if they were going to, it would have happened by now. Maybe the Department of Mysteries had its own Floo. Anyway, it was irrelevant. Calmed by this thought, Harry rolled over, curled up and fell asleep.

As it was, he saw Malfoy six days later.


	4. Chapter 4: Stalking the Stalker

**A/N:** Super short A/N because I'm running out the door to go erranding for my trip to NYC tomorrow! I'm going to see the Harry Potter Exhibition; is that not the greatest thing you've ever heard? On the downside, there will be no update on Wednesday, because I will be seeing the Harry Potter Exhibition. Never fear, regularly scheduled updates will resume on Friday (or possibly really really really late Wednesday night, depending on how I'm feeling after driving home).

**Chapter Four**

_**Stalking the Stalker**_

**7**

Harry had tried to speak to Kingsley, but he couldn't get an appointment until next week. He shouldn't have been surprised that the Minister was so busy, but it still felt like a slap to the face that he had to make an appointment to see his old friend, even if it was to discuss business in a professional setting. Instead he spent his nights continuing to wander the streets, the only bright spots being dinner with Larry on Wednesday, and that his schedule changed from Tottenham to Peckham. It didn't make a real difference, but it felt like something new. He no longer had the streets memorized, which was not exactly fun, nor did he know where the virtually nonexistent homeless population lived.

He saw no one Thursday night except for a couple necking behind a club. The awkwardness was the highlight of the night.

Friday was shaping up to be much like Thursday, only without the couple. He was still wandering aimlessly, not knowing the area well enough to plan out a route yet. It wasn't until very late indeed that he saw someone who looked like they might actually in need of help. He couldn't make out any details except that the person was leaning against the wall and drinking straight from a bottle of—yes, of Firewhiskey. Harry sighed. MuggleWatch was great, but the only person he had seen in the past week was Malfoy, and now this wizard. He made a promise to himself that if they were to change it to WizardWatch, he was _not_ going to have any part of it. _Period_.

"How's it going?" he called.

The bottle was raised in a sort of salute. "Brilliant," the wizard called back. He knew that voice and, unlike last week, was absolutely positive who it belonged to.

Harry sighed. "What are you doing here, Malfoy?"

"Drinkin'," he replied. "Here, have some whiskey."

"I'm on the job," Harry said. "Come on, get up. I'm taking you home."

"No!" Malfoy yelled. "No, I don' wanna go home. Don' like home."

Resigned, Harry cleaned the ground and sat down. "Why not?" he asked.

"No queshstions," he said. "You prosimedes me las' week."

"Yeah, and you promised to go back home and get your life together," Harry said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

"No," Malfoy said yet again. "I proshmished t' go home, an' I did. I even wen' t' that meething, the one with the barrishterm. Didn' say anythin' 'bout after."

Harry knew he went to the meeting, but he wasn't in a position to say why. When he'd woken up Monday night he'd checked his calendar, and next to the appointment was a small checkmark. He didn't know what would've happened had Malfoy skipped out, but he hadn't and so it didn't matter. "If you're going to make this a weekly routine, you're going to tell me what's going on," Harry said firmly. "And don't tell me you're out for drinks with friends. That's bloody ridiculous, nobody would come to Peckham after dark on purpose. Besides, there aren't any wizarding clubs, and I know you wouldn't sink to Muggle levels."

"Tol' you lass week," Malfoy said, annoyed. "'Storia left."

"So you get drunk in alleys to get revenge?" Harry asked. "That Firewhiskey, that's bottom shelf. You could be getting smashed on the finest bourbon ever brewed in the comfort of your home, yet you're in a back alley."

"I hate home," Malfoy said sharply, lucidly. Then he resumed his slur. "'Ss lonely."

"How's your divorce going, then?" Harry asked.

"Good, suppose," he replied, taking a swig of Firewhiskey. "'Storia's barstirer's th' devil, but 'Storia's bein' almoss reashonable. I'm keepin' all th' houses, and m' fambly's hishtories things. She's takin' back her shrtuff. We're juss arugrin' 'bout—'bout—" Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, giggled. "Guess th' whisky's workin'. Can' remebmer."

"That's good," Harry replied. "I was expecting a long, drawn out business covering the _Prophet_ for weeks. I've only seen your name once, in a small piece in the society pages."

Malfoy ogled him. "Y' read th' shoshiety pages?"

"I was trying to keep an eye on you," Harry said, "so this exact thing wouldn't happen. I assumed the lack of reported drama meant things were going well."

"I said they 're," Malfoy said, annoyed. "Things're fine."

"Then what're you doing out here drinking?" Harry asked, exasperated. "You hate home, I get it. But how is the Manor different from how it's always been?"

Malfoy looked away, taking another drink. "Erevydoby's gone. 'Storia leff me, m' patterns 'r in seclushion 'n Mulleg Lumexorb. Th' whole place 's emmmty."

Harry had to take a minute to decode that sentence. "Is it emptier than this alley?"

"Hah!" Malfoy said, pointing the whiskey at Harry, sloshing it on the ground. "I got you now! 'M not anole 't all. Yer here."

Harry frowned. "Were—were you waiting for me?" he asked. "How did you even know where I was going to be? I switched boroughs."

"Checkeded th' schedjul," Malfoy said superiorly. "Deparm—pardment 'f Mythteries knows _errythin._"

Harry stared at him. "You really were waiting for me?"

"No," he replied angrily. "No, I hate you."

"You just said—"

"_Drunk_," Malfoy said. "Doessn' matt'r what I say. 'Ts all wrooooong."

"I see," Harry said, entirely baffled. "You don't have any friends you could owl?"

Malfoy threw the whiskey bottle and it shattered. "'Storia took m' fiernds!" he yelled. "Th're all gone!"

"Oh," Harry said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"Y' shud be." Malfoy tried to focus on his hand. "Whiskey?"

"Gone," Harry said. "If you really needed companionship that badly, you could've owled me."

"No, I hate you," Malfoy said again. "An' m' coggelies—the, er, widards I work with—they're all _weird_. Mythteriesth my arsh. Juss ackjasses."

Harry snorted in laughter. "So how'd Astoria end up with your friends? Didn't you and Pansy grow up together?"

Malfoy sighed dramatically. "She's in 'Merickuh doin', uh, Panshy shtuff. Goyle workers fer Akzaban, buzzy all th' time. An' Blazie leff me fer 'Storia. 'Rappantly they're too acctravite t' not fuck."

Goyle working for Azkaban? That was somewhere between hilarious and terrifying. The others weren't big surprises. "If it helps, they haven't all left you," Harry said. "They're still your friends, just busy. Except Zabini, I guess, but he's a prat, and you're better off without him."

Malfoy giggled. "Thass rye'. But wol's take f'rerev to get t' 'Murricka an' back, an' no mail at Akzaman."

Harry was starting to worry. Malfoy was all but completely indecipherable, and it seemed he was just getting worse despite the bottle shattered against the wall. "Malfoy, how much have you had to drink?"

"I dunno," he said. "'Nuff."

As unpleasant as this was, at least he was trained for it, and had months and months (and months) of practice. "Do you know who the Minister is?"

Malfoy frowned. "Lackslebolt."

That was sort of right. "The year?"

His frown deepened. "Two thousan' sumthin'."

"Day of the week?"

"Friday!" Malfoy said excitedly. "Friday, 'cause yer in Peck'm."

Harry still hadn't decided how serious Malfoy was about waiting for him. The alcohol certainly lowered his inhibitions, and it seemed like he was telling the truth, but it could have all just been an elaborate prank. Then again, he was barely coherent enough to talk. Harry's head was spinning, and he couldn't remember the rest of the control questions. He wasn't going to take advantage of Malfoy and ask about things he had no business knowing, like his role in the war and how his parents had stayed out of Azkaban and all that.

"What was your best class at Hogwarts?"

"Poshuns," Malfoy said. "Shtill is. Mytheries has m' brewin' poshuns."

That was definitely something Harry wasn't supposed to know, and he tried to force himself to forget. What was another innocuous question he could ask? "What house were you in?"

"Th' Manor," he replied.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing up his glasses. "No, I mean at Hogwarts."

Malfoy frowned again. "What about Howargts?

"When you were a student at Hogwarts, what house were you in?" Harry asked patiently.

"Oh, Shlthryn," he said. "Snaaaaaakes." He giggled. The giggling was weird. But at least it didn't seem like Malfoy was in immediate danger. Really, mind-numbingly drunk, but not dangerous-drunk.

The sun was starting to rise, and with the coming of the sun, Harry was starting to get very tired. Still, he couldn't leave Malfoy like this. That was the whole point of MuggleWatch.

"I'm taking you back to Malfoy Manor," Harry said firmly. "Stand up so we can apparate."

"Nope," Malfoy said cheerfully. "Shtill can' arraptate theer. Shtay heeer."

"No," Harry said. "We're going to my place, then I'll Floo you to the Manor."

Malfoy launched himself across the alley and grabbed Harry's arms. "No!" he yelled. "No, not th' Manor. Please, not th' Manor." His eyes were deep and swimming with unshed tears, and Harry's heart clenched with pity.

"Okay," he said gently. "Okay, not the Manor. Will you come to Grimmauld Place, then? You can sleep it off there, and we'll decide what to do with you in the morning."

"'Kay," Malfoy said, much calmer. He slumped down, half on Harry and half on the wall. "'M readee."

Harry took out his wand and they disappeared with a pop.

**8**

The immediate need for the toilet wasn't there this time. Malfoy stumbled a bit on the floor, but he wasn't throwing up. In fact, he seemed cheerful.

"I like it here," he declared, staggering into the bedroom. "'s homeeeeeey."

Harry raised his eyebrows. Grimmauld Place was not exactly homey, no matter how many "ee"s Malfoy added. The room they were in was covered in dust save for tracks to and from the bathroom and the bed, which was neatly made. The walls were covered with portraits of the Black family from several centuries ago. They were stern and unhappy and had Elizabethan collars, which always seemed eerie and unfriendly. There was an empty desk, an empty dresser and a half-empty bookcase. The books that remained were too fragile to touch and too dusty to read the names.

"If you say so," Harry replied.

"I do," Malfoy said resolutely. He sprawled over the bed, then pushed himself up so he was leaning against the headboard. "I mean, 't cooould youuse some cleanin'. But 's niyce."

"I'm glad you think so," Harry said. He grabbed a glass from the bathroom and filled it with water. "Here, drink some water."

Malfoy was surprisingly amicable and did as he was told without any complaining. "So howze 't goin'?" he asked.

Harry stared at him. What sort of Malfoy was this, one who asked about other people and didn't fight when he was asked to do something? "Um, good," Harry said. "It kind of sucks to be working nights, but it's fine." He thought Malfoy wasn't likely to remember any of this tomorrow, but if he was going to remember anything, it would no doubt be something that would get Harry in trouble. So, at least for now, he'd hold back how he felt about MuggleWatch.

…at least for now? What?

Malfoy nodded sagely. "Weave got alnglihters in Mytherties at leass once a week."

"Don't tell me about your work, okay?" Harry said soothingly. "You'll get in trouble."

"Oh, yeah." Malfoy stared blankly into the distance. "'m glad yer here."

Harry smiled, then caught himself and stopped. "Glad to help." He yawned. "I'm going to go to bed now, okay? I'll see you in the morning."

"No," Malfoy said immediately, once again jumping up and grabbing Harry's shoulders. "No, don' go. Don' wanna b' 'lone. Thass why 'm here, 'stead of th' Manor."

Harry gently removed his hands from his shoulders. "I'll be right down the hall. I've been up since five-thirty, I need to get some rest."

"Stay," Malfoy insisted, seizing Harry's wrist. "Don' leave."

Harry tried to remove himself from Malfoy's grasp but he was surprisingly strong, especially given how drunk he was. "Malfoy, really, I need to sleep. You can get me as soon as you wake up, but I've got to go."

Malfoy opened his mouth to say something but was sick instead, all over himself and Harry. Harry groaned. "Come on," he said, leading Malfoy into the bathroom. This time he made it to the toilet, and Harry quickly cleaned himself and Malfoy. He sat against the wall, watching as Malfoy threw up.

"You're fortegging," Malfoy said, wiping his mouth. "'m hair an' m' back. Y' prosimed."

Harry thought about pointing out they had determined last week's promises were negated, but he felt bad for Malfoy. So he swept his hair back, once again noticing how smooth it was, and rubbed his back. This time they were there for much longer than an hour, Harry lost track around seven in the morning. His eyelids were drooping, he kept starting to doze off only to be woken up by dry heaves, and he ended up leaning his head on Malfoy's back, ignoring his retching motions and pretending he was asleep.

After what seemed like ages, Malfoy finally declared, "Think 'm done."

Harry blinked groggily and sat up. "Need help getting into bed?"

"Yeah," Malfoy said. "Also stadninding."

Goddammit, wasn't he supposed to be sober after throwing up? Harry sighed, stood, and helped Malfoy to his feet. He led him to the bed, pulled up the blankets, and set him down. Harry took off his shoes, tie and belt—the items he thought most uncomfortable—and pulled the covers up.

"How're you doing?" Harry asked.

Malfoy's eyes were closed.

Harry sighed. "You're asleep already, aren't you?"

Malfoy said nothing.

"Right. Sleep well, then," Harry said and dragged himself off to bed, wondering if he was going to be woken up by screaming again. He really hoped not. He really thought he would be. He started to sigh again but was asleep before he could let out the breath.


	5. Chapter 5: Pounding the Paperwork

**A/N: **It's a chapter! I just got home from NYC and oh my god, it was so amazing. If there is ANY way you can get to the Harry Potter Exhibition, go. I've never been happier in my entire life. If you go in the middle of the day on a weekday it's practically empty and, if you make reeeeeeally big puppy eyes and ask reeeeeeally nicely and beg reeeeeeally hard, the very nice security guard by Snape's robes will let you lean over the ropes and touch them and I TOUCHED SNAPES ROBES HIS ACTUAL ROBES NOT REPLICATIONS BUT ACTUAL ROBES THAT HE ACTUALLY WORE YOU GUYS OH MY GOD

**Chapter Five**

_**Pounding the Paperwork**_

**9**

Harry woke to a quiet knocking. "Come in," he said professionally. Then he opened his eyes and realized he was at home in bed, and hadn't fallen asleep on the office couch again. But who exactly would be knocking on his door? He fumbled for his glasses.

"You again," Malfoy said, coming into focus both physically and mentally. Right, he had been drunk again and Harry had to rescue him again and he may have staged the whole thing which was certainly not an again and however long Harry had slept wasn't nearly long enough.

"You insisted," Harry said, preparing himself for an argument. "I tried to take you back to the Manor but you wouldn't, you said you didn't want to be alone, and I couldn't leave you in the alley, so—"

Malfoy held up a hand. "It's all right, Potter. I remember getting drunk in an alley in Peckham, and I have vague memories of you finding me. I suppose I went around spilling personal secrets again?"

"Um," Harry said. "Sort of."

Malfoy looked around and sat delicately on an antique chair. "Would you tell me? I'd rather find out first hand than hear it as gossip flying around the Ministry."

"I'd never tell anyone," Harry said. "What you say when you're drunk, when I'm on MuggleWatch, that's entirely confidential."

"Still, I would like to know," Malfoy said, quietly insistent. "I'm sure I embarrassed myself terribly, and I would very much like to know how."

Harry sighed and squirmed awkwardly. "Well, you said you missed your friends, and told me where they were. You went to see Larry and that went well, that the divorce is going well in general and you and Astoria are getting along. I made sure you weren't so drunk I needed to take you to St. Mungo's." He paused. "Do you really want to know everything?"

Malfoy closed his eyes briefly. "Yes."

"You told me you were waiting for me," Harry said. "You checked the schedule to see where I'd be and you set yourself up there. Once we got here you made me stay with you before you started throwing up, while you were throwing up, and after. I think you may have been trying to get me to share a bed with you—entirely platonically of course—but I said no."

"And that's it?"

"Yeah, I think so," Harry said. "I was pretty tired by the end of it."

Malfoy nodded. "Yes, I'd imagine so. About staking you out—"

"You don't have to," Harry interrupted. "Don't worry about it, I forgot already."

"No," Malfoy said with the same insistence. "I'm sorry. I've been drinking a lot lately, and I devised the plan and decided to act on it while drunk, though apparently I was keen enough on the idea to look up your schedule at work—I assure you I don't drink at work, you haven't got to worry about that. It's pathetic, I know, that the only person I can talk to is you, and only when I've lured you into a dark alley, and only when I'm really, _really_ drunk. It won't happen again, I assure you."

"If you want to get together sometime, that'd be all right," Harry said, a bit hesitantly. Would it? Drunk Malfoy was entertaining and open and honest, but Sober Malfoy was a complete and utter prat. Except for right now.

Malfoy looked away. "No, I don't need your pity. I can handle myself."

"It's not pity," Harry said firmly. "I don't mind. Really. If I didn't care about you I would've dropped you off at the MuggleWatch hotel or St. Mungo's and been rid of you. Instead I've brought you here twice, taken care of you while you've thrown up twice, and at least started you on a better path. You were a prick most of the time you were sober, but I'll give it a go. And if I still hate you, or you still hate me, that'll be that."

He considered. "I suppose there's no harm in getting a few drinks."

"Er, well, I can't do drinks, because I have breakfast at dinner and go to bed as the sun comes up, but I could do dinner, especially if we went somewhere that has pancakes."

Malfoy smiled, then caught himself and went back to his passive, contrite look. "I hardly see myself in a diner setting. But there is a lovely café by the Ministry that serves breakfast all day, catering specifically to employees on difficult schedules. We could go there."

Harry gaped at him. There was? Why had nobody told him? "Yeah," he said angrily. "That'd be good." Malfoy looked confused, and Harry took a deep breath. "Sorry, that wasn't at you. I just can't believe nobody told me about it before now."

Malfoy shrugged. "At least you know now." His eyes widened just slightly, a hand started to go to his mouth, and Harry sighed, knowing what was coming. Malfoy leaned over the side of the chair and threw up. A lot. Again on the antique carpet. Harry cleaned it with a swish of his wand, and, once Malfoy was aware enough of his surroundings to catch it, tossed him his.

"Can you handle being at the Manor by yourself?" Harry asked.

Malfoy sniffed. "I assure you I am quite self-sufficient," he said in his regular, snobby way. Then he smiled again, just a little, but enough that Harry noticed. "Besides, even though my parents brought Sunny with them to Luxembourg, I've moved the house elf from our French villa to the Manor, so at least I don't have to cook or clean."

Harry smiled back, repressing a roll of the eyes. "That's good," he said, trying his hardest not to sound sarcastic. "So, I'm going to try to get some more sleep, I'm still exhausted. If you need a few more hours you're welcome to stay in the guest room, but as long as you're not a complete wreck, which it seems you aren't, I'm officially kicking you out of my room."

Malfoy's smile widened, again just the tiniest bit. "No, Potter, there's no need to house me when I have three estates all to myself. I can even escort myself down to your study to Floo home. Dinner—or breakfast, as you say—Wednesday?"

"I've got a meeting with the Minister then," Harry said. "Thursday?"

"Thursday it is." He left, closing the door softly behind himself.

Harry had to wake up early on Wednesday for his meeting with Kingsley, early being four in the afternoon. He took a shower where he forgot to use soap and just stood under the water for a socially acceptable amount of time. He had plain, untoasted bread and dry cereal for breakfast, because apparently he had run out of milk. He put on his Auror robes, which was good, and made him feel like he still worked for the Ministry after all.

He Flooed to the Ministry a full half hour early on the off chance he had forgotten where Kingsley's office was, or there was a sudden explosion of Pixies in the middle of the atrium. Neither of those things happened, and he ended up sitting outside his office on an uncomfortable chair until five o'clock exactly, when his secretary told him he could go in.

"Ah, Auror Potter, good to see you," Kingsley said, sitting behind a very large, very impressive, very imposing desk. "How are you this fine evening?"

Evening, of course. "I'm good," Harry said, sitting opposite Kingsley. No, not Kingsley, Minister Shacklebolt, the Minister of Magic. He had been addressed as Auror Potter, he would call Kingsley by his proper name.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

Suddenly this meeting seemed like a very bad idea. Was Harry actually going to ask for a reassignment, ask to be taken off the Ministry's highly successful, positive-press-generating program? How, precisely, was he planning on phrasing himself? "Well, I wanted to talk to you about MuggleWatch," Harry said carefully.

"Of course," Minister Shacklebolt said. "It's been a remarkable success, don't you think?"

"Yes," Harry said, stomach sinking. "It's quite brilliant. The thing, though, is, well, the number of homeless on the streets has decreased so drastically, I feel it might be a good time to put the program on hiatus? The figures we've generated so far have shown a remarkable continued success rate, and perhaps taking sometime off and reevaluating in, say, six months, might be wise." That sounded remarkably impressive, and he was very pleased with himself.

Minister Shacklebolt raised his eyebrows. "I see," he said. "You have done research into the statistics, then? And feel we have permanently eradicated the homeless situation?"

"No, of course not," Harry replied. "But I can say from personal experience I haven't run into anyone in need of assistance for at least the past two weeks. I was merely suggesting a break, to give us time to continue to track the Muggles' progress."

"Are you volunteering for such a position?" the Minister asked, and Harry could have kicked himself. "I agree entirely with your premise; we only have three wizards currently patrolling the streets, and there have been no forms filed in the past month. I was going to gather all of you in a meeting myself, but you know my schedule."

"Yes, Minister," Harry replied, trying to find a polite way of saying "There is no chance in hell I'm doing that". "I think, perhaps, another wizard might be a better candidate for follow ups. Someone with better organizational skills, and one who is not so recognizable, even in the Muggle eye."

"Perhaps," Minister Shacklebolt replied. "Then again, your enthusiasm and quality would merit such a promotion. I got your owl the other week, about the case that required your entire attention. A case I never got a MW-42 on, by the way. How is that individual doing?"

Oh Merlin, he had forgotten about that owl. "I referred them to Lawrence Hollingberry, who has since taken over the case. A nasty divorce, between two well-known wizards. I know I should have filed a report, but—"

"One must always think of the wizard first," Minister Shacklebolt interrupted. "If you thought it inappropriate to generate paperwork, I trust your judgment. In fact, that is precisely why I think you would be an ideal candidate for leading this second phase of MuggleWatch."

This was not going in the right direction, not even remotely. Goddammit, he was bollocks at this sort of bureaucratic stuff. He was blunt and harsh and didn't mince words. Still, he didn't think saying "Put me back in the Auror office before I hex the daylights out of you" was a good plan. "While I'm honored that you think I'm qualified, it has occurred to me that a wizard from a different department may be more suitable than I. I've spoken with Auror Weasley, and he told me the Auror office is stretched quite thin, and raids are continually being pushed back far enough that the wizards in question have ample time to prepare themselves. In addition, he said—" Bloody hell, what had Ron been complaining about lately? "—hours have been extended, paperwork is piling up, and new investigations have been all but discontinued, as the current ones have fallen so far behind."

The minister raised his eyebrows. "Are you questioning how I run the Ministry?"

Harry flushed. He was _terrible_ at this. "No, sir, of course not," he said quickly. "I just thought—"

"You want your old position back," Minister Shacklebolt interrupted. "You feel I've kept you away from the Auror office for too long, and you're—quite literally, Auror Potter—on the edge of your seat, waiting to go back."

Harry closed his eyes, just for a second. "No, of course not," he repeated. "I only want what's best for the Ministry, for MuggleWatch, and for the Auror office. If you believe I'm the best man for phase two, I'd be happy to lead the initiative."

Minister Shacklebolt smiled, and for the first time, Harry thought he might get out of this with his job, any job, intact. "No, Harry, don't bother lying. Your intentions are written all over your face. In fact, I'm quite impressed you've waited this long to speak with me. I will return you to the Auror office; they have been left lacking since your departure. However, I do ask that you wrap up this phase of MuggleWatch, and assign the new group to track successes. Amos Diggory in Magical Creatures has the paperwork since the program started, and I'm sure he would be more than happy to hand it off to you."

"I'd be happy to," Harry said, flooding with relief. "I'll go through everything and assemble the best possible selection of candidates. How many wizards were you thinking?"

"However many you see fit, Auror Potter," the minister said. "I'm sure you have a better idea of what needs to be done than I."

"Yes, sir," Harry said. He paused. "And thank you, Minister, for allowing me to return to the Auror department."

Minister Shacklebolt chuckled. "Of course. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a meeting I need to prepare for."

"Of course," Harry said and left, practically skipping up to Magical Creatures. A day, two at the most, and he'd be back in his Auror office, doing what he was meant to do. After spending all his nights out on the street, getting together a taskforce was going to be a piece of cake.

Of course, it was anything but.

**10**

Amos Diggory was halfway out the door when Harry showed up.

"No," Diggory said. "No, you're not putting me back on MuggleWatch. I'm doing the paperwork on top of my actual job, I'm not going back out on the streets."

"Then today is your lucky day," Harry said. "I'm taking the paperwork off your hands. You are officially free."

Diggory's face relaxed. "Oh thank Merlin. Come in then." He led Harry over to a small, red filing cabinet. "There you go."

Harry gawked. "Three drawers of papers?"

"Oh, no," Diggory said cheerfully. "It's enchanted. Extendable drawers. You'll have to hover it away, there's no way that thing's getting off the ground."

Harry groaned. "All MW-42s?"

"The top two drawers," Diggory said. "The bottom one's filled with follow-up."

"Brilliant," Harry sighed. "Have you got an idea—?"

"No ideas," Diggory interrupted firmly. "I have no opinion about anything related to MuggleWatch. I've really got to go, Mandy's insisted I've got to be home for dinner at least once a week, and today's that day."

"Right, go ahead," Harry said. "I'll deal with this."

"Brilliant, see you later," Diggory said, and left.

Harry levitated the filing cabinet to his office, gathering a following of Aurors as he went along.

"So you're finally back?" Ron asked. "Bloody brilliant! You can catch up on the paperwork."

"Not done with MuggleWatch," Harry said, gesturing at the filing cabinet and accidentally causing it to slam into a desk. "I've got to assign a task force for phase two."

Ron, and all the other Aurors, paled. "Phase two?" he asked.

"Follow up," Harry said, finally reaching his office and setting the filing cabinet down next to his desk. "Long-term statistics on success rates."

Suddenly the Auror department, who had for the most part been gathering their things to leave for the day, were bringing Harry fresh coffee, a scone from the cafeteria, even offering to help in exchange for staying in the Auror office.

"Okay, stop!" Harry yelled as a junior Auror attempted to summon a small collection of fairies to make his office more cheerful and ended up causing a department wide infestation. "I'm not doing this based on who's nicest to me, or whatever it is you're trying to do! Just leave me alone, okay? The sooner I get this done the sooner I can get back to work." A small group of Aurors who were hovering outside his door started to back away. "And Merlin help the wizard who tries to get me to do paperwork after this!" he added, directed at Ron. "Now go away!"

Harry closed the door with a swish of his wand and turned to the filing cabinet. Ministry filing cabinets were very different from Muggle ones, and he sized it up. He tapped it with his wand and said, "Organize by reporting wizard." He heard papers shuffling around inside. "Then order them by who's had the most documented successes." More shuffling. "Take into account the neighborhood." The filing cabinet let out a loud alarm. Okay, it didn't know the intricacies of Muggle London boroughs. Fair enough. Was there anything else he needed? That was probably the best he could do. He opened the top drawer, and it shot across the room, filling the entire space. Merlin, Diggory hadn't been wrong about an extendable enchantment.

He went through the documents, jotting down likely names. The wizard with the most documented cases was himself, and he was _not_ volunteering for anything ever again. It wasn't just that simple, though. He needed to make sure he didn't take too many from any one department. Those from International Magical Cooperation had the highest rates, which wasn't surprising, but he couldn't reassign the entire department. He wanted to leave the Aurors untouched, but that would be such obvious favoritism there was no way it would not be overlooked, nor could he just pick the most incompetent wizard to get him out of the way.

It wasn't until seven or eight in the morning, when the office started to fill again, that Harry realized he couldn't go home until normal work hours. He was no longer on night duty, his schedule was back to normal. That meant he would be awake for at least twenty-four hours straight. He let out a deep sigh and went back to work.

Ron brought him lunch, and they ate together in Harry's office. He had missed this, missed the daily lunches, spending regular time with his best friend, and even the cafeteria food was better than what he could keep in his pockets. The food, company and coffee were enough to perk him up, and by the time Ron left a genuine second wind had hit. He returned to the filing cabinet with a renewed vigor that lasted approximately ten minutes. Then he sunk back into the exhaustive tedium, and the rest of the afternoon dragged on, with the exception of one particularly interesting memo.

_Potter—_

_I hear you're off MuggleWatch. Congratulations. Still want breakfast for dinner?_

—_Malfoy_

Harry blinked tiredly at the paper. Breakfast for dinner? His meals had gotten so confused, and this endless day was not helping. Eventually he figured out what Malfoy was saying and wrote back.

_Malfoy—_

Then he stopped. He was exhausted, bloody _miserable_, and maybe they should reschedule. But Malfoy had been so desperate, and in such need of a friend. It didn't seem right to cancel.

_Malfoy—_

_Wherever you want. I've been up for twenty-two hours, I can't remember my own name, let alone a restaurant or pub or food place. What time are we meeting?_

—_Potter_

Was that coherent? Eh, close enough. Harry sent the memo away and returned to sorting through follow-up cases. The wizards who had the most long-term successes were the ones who had the fewest MW-42s. Not surprising. Also not helpful. Then again, this was about interviews and check ups, not administering magic. They'd need to be thorough, though. But also speedy, otherwise the process would take forever. Harry didn't feel right about sending middle-of-the-road witches and wizards out, but while picking the best from each side seemed to make sense, it would only result in half well-researched reports and half half-assed. But the two ends of the problem were still mostly guided by Ministry department, and he still couldn't dismantle the entirety of Law Enforcement, that would result in chaos.

The memo flew back in.

_Potter—_

_Are you all right? "Food places"? I'm afraid you may be losing it._

_Meet me at six by the fountain, if you're coherent enough to find it. We'll discuss these so called "food places" then._

—_Malfoy_

Harry thought it rather rich Malfoy was making fun of his speech given what he had said while drunk, but whatever.

_See you then._

He returned to his lists. This was impossible.


	6. Chapter 6: Dining the Drained

**A/N:** So Snape's robes poisoned me. I had a cut on the finger I touched his robes with and it had been fine, didn't hurt at all. Now it's turning red and purple and puffy and it hurts so much I can't even type with it. Have you tried to type without your index finger? It's tricky. I should hardly be surprised; the man isn't overly fond of being touched, of course he'd curse his robes. Still, though. My finger hurts.

But guess what? I'm totally going down again next week with my sister. Day trip this time which means sixish hours of driving, including in Manhattan and Times Square, but so worth it. Maybe if my finger is still fucked I can find the antidote? There were a few bezoar stones in a case by his things, maybe I can sneak one out.

Also, I'm working on a Snarry story inspired by the events. Keep an eye out; I'm not sure when it'll be published, but it's called Starched Cuffs and it will be coming your way soon.

**Chapter Six**

_**Dining the Drained**_

**11**

Harry was slightly delirious when he met Malfoy. He was sure he looked like hell, he was twitchy and nervous about his lists, which would have been complete had he made a decision, and was so tired he had passed into a weird sort of hyper-awake state where everything was very clear with sharp edges and bright colors, except it seemed to be swimming before his eyes.

This alertness was how he could pick out Malfoy amongst the giant crowd of wizards on their way home. He waved his arm and immediately stopped, because they had agreed to meet by the fountain and he was by the fountain so he didn't need to alert Malfoy to his presence because he'd see him himself in a minute.

"Potter," Malfoy said coolly, stepping out of the throng and standing next to Harry.

"I thought we were on a friends basis," Harry said. "You sound so displeased to be seen with me."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "I sound displeased to be seen?"

"You can't make fun of me for how I'm talking, you were an utter mess in—" Harry cut himself off. That was not a conversation for in the Ministry. "Anyway, it's not fair. Where are we going for dinner?"

"You make it sound so serious," Malfoy sniffed. "It was drinks before you made it dinner. Since you've no longer just woken up, shall we return to alcohol?"

"You drink too much," Harry stated. "I wouldn't feel right."

Malfoy flushed. "Potter," he snapped. "Shut up. What have you been doing to make you so distastefully unpleasant?"

"I told you, didn't I? I've been up since four," Harry said. "Four last night, I mean. Twenty-six hours. It's been a long time since I've been up that late. That long, I mean, it's not really late, is it? It's only six. Anyway, I'm starving, we should go eat."

"Right," Malfoy said. "Well, let's just go to that café, all right? You don't seem to be up for much."

"Sure, that's fine," Harry said. "Lead the way."

They walked out of the Ministry together, collecting several strange looks—eight, to be precise, Harry counted—followed by a short walk to the café. Harry started to walk in, but Malfoy put a hand on his shoulder.

"There are an awful lot of Ministry employees there," Malfoy said tentatively.

"I thought that was the point?" Harry asked. "Breakfast any time of the day for weird schedules?"

"Well yes, but that's when you needed breakfast at any time of the day," Malfoy replied. "Seeing as we are no longer bound by such restrictions, why don't we go some place a little more private?"

"Are you ashamed of eating with me?" Harry asked. "That should really go the other way, if it was to go any way at all. I'm much more—er—less of—I saved you," he settled on. "So you should be grateful and not ashamed."

"I'm not ashamed," Malfoy said smoothly. "To be honest, I thought you'd rather not be seen with me."

"Whatever," Harry said amicably. "I'd just like to get something to eat. Ron brought me lunch, but I think I might have forgotten a few meals in the middle of the night."

Malfoy held out his arm. "Apparate?"

"Whatever," Harry repeated, taking his arm. They reappeared in a small, out of the way alley. It was a wizard alley, he could tell from the shops, though not one he had been in before. Despite an initial impression of squalor—perhaps from too many nights spent in small, out of the way alleys, all of the shops seemed quite nice, and the café they were walking towards seemed lovely, at least judging by the fairies hovering in the bushes and the elegant script on the sign. "Where are we?" he asked.

"Lily Alley," Malfoy said. "Figures you don't know it. It's much less busy than Diagon Alley or Knockturn, and more exclusive."

"Okay," Harry replied amicably, too tired to be anything but.

"This is my favorite café," Malfoy said. "I know you're tired and rather—odd—because of it, but do try not to make a fool out of yourself. I don't fancy being kicked out of yet another home."

"I'm tired, not insane," Harry said irritably. "Though I'm glad you're willing to talk about it. You need to talk to someone. Bottling up is just going to lead to worse alleys and drinking and stalking me, when you could be actually talking to me."

"Potter, if you're this tired, why didn't you just reschedule?" Malfoy asked as they were seated.

"So you don't get drunk again," Harry said. "I'm not on MuggleWatch anymore, I didn't want you to actually be stuck in an alley."

Malfoy frowned slightly. "You did something nice for me? When you weren't legally bound to?"

"Sure," Harry said. "It's been years since Hogwarts. You were cleared of all charges. You work for the Ministry, apparently, just found that out. Why not put things behind us?"

Malfoy sighed lightly. "I think our positions might be reversed," he said. "You're clearly incoherent. I should take you home."

"No, I'm hungry," Harry said. "I don't feel like cooking. I'm fine, really, just a little tired."

"If you say so."

They placed their orders and sat in a silence that would have been awkward were Harry not so tired and Malfoy so amused.

"So can I ask about your divorce?" Harry asked. "We haven't talked about it when you're sober, and I feel guilty for knowing what I know, since I shouldn't, so if you told me about it on purpose, that would be better."

Malfoy had to stifle a laugh. "Don't feel guilty. It was my mistake, not yours. Besides, I don't know what I told you, so I can hardly repeat it. What would you like to know?"

"You said you and Astoria were surprisingly amicable, except for one thing," Harry said. "Only you couldn't remember what."

Malfoy stiffened. "You would ask about that. Well, we're dividing up everything as it was before we married. The few things we bought together neither of us are particularly attached to, so we're leaving them in whomever's estate they currently reside."

"Except?"

Their food arrived, and Malfoy had a welcome distraction.

"I won't tell anyone," Harry said. "It still counts as MuggleWatch, I suppose. Or maybe it's a sign that you're willing to work on getting over our differences by sharing something personal."

Malfoy pursed his lips. "Fine. If you must know, we both play piano, and we bought a very old, very expensive piano together. Neither of us wants to part with it."

"That's sweet," Harry said. "I mean, not that you're fighting about it, but that you play piano. I'd imagine you don't want anything she's had her hands all over."

"I agree entirely," Malfoy said. "However, it is quite the piano."

"Then let's go piano shopping," Harry suggested. "I haven't slept in twenty-six and a half hours now, I might as well do some shopping."

This time Malfoy actually laughed. "You—Potter, you have no idea. Every single thing about that sentence was wrong. Piano stores are hardly purveyors of what I chose to play. Even if they were, they'd be closed by now. If I'm going to find a new piano, it would come from an auction house or an estate sale."

"What about your old piano?" Harry asked. "Surely you had a piano before this one."

"I did," Malfoy said. "But my Mother plays as well—she was the one who taught me, insisting it was family tradition—and she brought it with her to Luxembourg. I bought a cheap upright while I searched for the perfect replacement, and as it was, I didn't come across it until Astoria and I were married, so we bought it together."

"Oh, I see," Harry said. "Nothing to bargain with?"

Malfoy shrugged. "Like I said, we're amicable. I suppose it comes from not interacting with each other for several years."

"I'm sorry," Harry said. "Really, that's too bad." His eyes lit up. "Wait! I've been stupid. There's an old piano in the basement of Grimmauld Place. I haven't any idea if it's good or not, but it's old, and from your family. Come over after dinner. If you want it, it's yours."

Malfoy stared at him. "You'd just give it to me?"

"Sure," Harry said. "Why not? I don't play."

"So it turns out after all these years you aren't an insufferable arse after all," Malfoy considered. "How odd."

"And it turns out you crave attention and can't handle living by yourself," Harry replied. "Wait, no, I'm sorry. That was really rude. I didn't mean it."

Malfoy sighed. "It's all right. Like I said, anything I told you is my fault, not yours."

"You not blaming me for everything, I like that," Harry said. "You're not a prat either. Never would've guessed."

"I've had to make certain—concessions—over the past four years," Malfoy said delicately. "Marrying Astoria was only one of them. Still, though, I've managed to retain my place in society, the majority of my wealth, and I work for the Department of Mysteries. It could be worse."

Harry smiled. "Concessions meaning not being an arsehole anymore?"

Malfoy sneered. "Scratch that, you're still insufferable."

"Hey, I'm offering you a potentially priceless piano," Harry said. "Plus I stayed up with you two nights stroking your hair and rubbing your back after you told me your deepest secrets, so you better be nice to me."

Malfoy flinched. "I can't believe I did that."

"Also you stalked me," Harry said helpfully. "Though I suppose I did that enough at Hogwarts. We're even on that count, I guess. Even if our only bathroom encounter at school consisted of almost killing each other."

"Potter, just stop talking and eat, would you?" Malfoy said. "You're being—I don't even know what, but stop talking."

"I can't, if I stop talking I'll fall asleep," Harry said. "Really. I'm not reading paperwork, I'm not thinking about impossible taskforces, all I've got left is talking."

Malfoy shook his head. "I'm taking you home after this," he said.

"Yes, exactly, to look at the piano," Harry said. "It's probably out of tune, and it's possible there's something living inside it. Can you still tell if it's good?"

"Yes, of course," Malfoy said, a hint of his usual derision sneaking in. "Upright or grand?"

"Grand," Harry said. "That's all I know though, so don't bother questioning me, I have no idea. Also, who do you think would be good for a taskforce for following up on MuggleWatch?"

Malfoy blinked at the change in topic. "Any information I have access to that you don't is classified," he said.

"I know you brew potions," Harry said helpfully. "That's all you said, though. Oh, and that you have access to my schedule."

"And that's all you're going to know," Malfoy said.

Harry yawned, and then suddenly his eyelids drooped and his limbs felt heavy and he thought he might be asleep already. "I think I'm done with dinner," he said. "Sleep. Please."

"It's about time you realized," Malfoy said. He stood, threw some Galleons on the table, took Harry's arm and apparated them to Grimmauld Place. "Come on, bed for you."

"No, the piano," Harry said. "I've got just enough—" _yawn_ "—to show it to you."

"If you insist," Malfoy said skeptically, following Harry down to the basement. It was dark and dank and filled with cobwebs, artifacts Harry preferred not to think about, and whatever the Order had dumped down here while they were cleaning.

Harry yawned again. "It's somewhere down here," he said, sending light to the lanterns lining the walls. "Back here, I think." He led Malfoy through a maze of objects so dusty they were impossible to recognize. "Yeah, here we go." He stepped out of the way and Malfoy gawked.

"This—this has been sitting in your _basement?_" he exclaimed. "Potter, this is worth a fortune!"

"Better than the one you and Astoria have?" Harry asked.

"_Yes_," Malfoy said. "Can I play it?"

"Sure, it's yours," Harry said. "Do whatever you want with it."

"No," Malfoy said insistently, though he did sit on the bench and slid back the cover. "No, you can't give this to me. This is…" He trailed off as he played a few notes. "It's been enchanted to stay in tune. Are you sure I can play it?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yes, really. It means nothing to me." He sat, leaning against a pile of boxes, and closed his eyes, just resting them as Malfoy played. He was awake just long enough to hear that Malfoy was surprisingly good before his twenty-seven hour day caught up with him and that was that.

**12**

Harry woke up in bed. His shoes were off, but other than that he was fully clothed. He glanced at the clock and nearly had a heart attack—it was eleven. Eleven in the morning. When he was due to be in work at eight. Also in the morning. Because he wasn't on nightshift anymore. He jumped out of bed and reached for his wand. There was a note on it.

_Potter—_

_You passed out in your basement. I tried to wake you, but you were too tired and started mumbling about phase two and MuggleWatch and such nonsense. I put you to bed—we're almost even now, I've only got one bed-debt left—and owled the Minister, telling him you needed a day to recover. He said he assumed you knew that. Clearly, Potter, you are the height of intelligence. Whenever you wake up, try not to have a panic attack over being late, and just go back to bed._

—_Malfoy_

_p.s. I left your piano. We'll have to negotiate a fair payment. It's a beautiful instrument, as well as settling my dispute with Astoria. Mr. Hollingberry has relayed the information to her barrister, and I'll hear back shortly._

Harry put the note down. That was good. And the bit about the bed-debt; who knew Malfoy had a sense of humor? He wished Malfoy would just take the piano, it really meant nothing to him, and it was just taking up space.

Then he realized he could go back to sleep, so he did.


	7. Chapter 7: Writing the Weary

**A/N:** Hey guys, it's a chapter! I'm so proud I remembered, especially since it's a holiday and double especially because my sleep has been weird and I'm utterly exhausted. On the bright side, my finger—the one that Snape's robes cursed—is finally getting better. It's so awesome that typing isn't painful anymore! Especially since I never stopped typing, even when it was at it's worst. This is much better :P

**Chapter Seven**

_**Writing the Weary**_

**13**

Harry was woken up an hour later by Pig slamming into the window over and over again. He stumbled over to the window, still in yesterday's Auror robes, and let the hyperactive owl in, making sure to take the note before letting him go.

_Hey Harry—_

_Hermione's making me wake you up so you can switch your sleep schedule. She seems to think if I do it you'll be less mad than if she owled you. Anyway, wake up, sunshine!_

_There's a rumor going around that you and Malfoy left work together last night? I've been defending your honor all day; would you just send an owl to the Auror office telling them it's bollocks?_

_Also, Hermione and I are coming over for dinner at six. She's quite insistent on making sure your sleep schedule gets fixed. Dinner, then chess or Snaps or something until she deems it a proper "bedtime". Sorry, mate. Couldn't get you out of it._

_See you then,_

_Ron_

Goddammit. The Ministry was even worse about gossip than Hogwarts, and that was a school full of teenagers. It was sort of funny that Harry had only just found out about Malfoy's job, and now they were apparently the talk of the Ministry. Well, whatever. He had only been around him when one of them was incapacitated from drinking or lack of sleep, but it really did seem like Malfoy had changed, at least a little. At least enough to warrant further investigation. He owled Ron back saying dinner was fine and the only reason they left together was so he could show Malfoy his piano.

Harry changed into comfy Muggle clothes and was halfway through whatever meal this qualified as when Pig returned.

_How'd he find out about the piano? Also, what piano?_

—_Ron_

Harry contemplated. If he said it was confidential it would be obvious he had found Malfoy through MuggleWatch, and he was still fuzzy from so much sleep preceded by so little to make up an excuse.

_There's an old piano in my basement and I don't play and he does._

_See you at six._

Harry finished lunch and went out for groceries. It had been nearly impossible to go shopping while on the nightshift, and it was good to be able to get food from somewhere other than an all-night minimart. Maybe he could even find something other than crackers, cereal and milk.

When he got back there were two notes waiting for him.

_How do you know he plays piano? And how does he know you have one? This is all very suspicious, Harry. What if he's trying to sneak in to steal whatever dark artifacts are lying around? Or just to prank you? Don't let him in._

—_Ron_

_Potter—_

_When would it be convenient for me to stop by and look at the piano? I assume you're too tired tonight, but perhaps sometime this weekend? If you've changed your mind, just tell me and I'll stop owling._

_Dinner with you wasn't too terribly horrendous. I believe I told you I'm low on friends? If you'd be interested in another meal, it seems Thursdays are good for me._

—_Malfoy_

Harry might still be a bit delirious from the past few days, but the combination of letters struck him as quite funny, and he put his groceries away with an unduly amount of cheer for groceries. It became a bit less funny when he had to figure out how to reply to Ron, and how to plan with Malfoy, which he was happy to do, but it still seemed awkward and odd.

_Ron, stop worrying. We bumped into each other, that's all. I'll be with him the whole time, he won't steal anything. He's mellowed, sometimes._

_Now get back to work before Hermione finds out you're slacking off._

—_Harry_

It wasn't really fair to play the Hermione card, but he needed time to think of a decent excuse.

_Malfoy—_

_Next Friday, and dinner then drinks? It's about time I go out at night for fun._

—_Potter_

Ron stopped owling, which was good because Harry was running out of excuses. He and Malfoy exchanged a few more notes, confirming a time and meeting place for Friday. They both agreed it might be better not to meet near the Ministry, so they'd apparate separately to Lily Alley and meet up there.

Harry puttered through the rest of his day, trying to remember what it was like to be awake during the day. The sun was nice, or would have been had it not shed such blindingly clear light on the mess he had allowed his home to become. There was dust on everything, a pile of _Daily Prophets_ by the couch, a smaller pile on the coffee table from the past week or two when he had been trying to keep an eye on Malfoy, a stack of unread mail in his office, and a pile of unwashed dishes next to the sink. When it had been the Order headquarters a great deal of dishes had been necessary, the end result being that Harry could go quite some time before needing to clean them.

So, with his first free day-time day in months, Harry cleaned. He dusted, he vacuumed, and he washed dishes. He threw out the old _Prophets_; if he hadn't read them by now, he certainly wasn't going to later on. He cooked a proper meal, albeit a very simple one, and by the time Ron and Hermione arrived, Grimmauld Place no longer resembled an abandoned building.

"Okay, so what's the deal with this piano thing?" Ron asked as they walked inside.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Harry, this smells delicious. It's been ages since you've cooked."

"Thanks, 'Mione," Harry said. "Really, all I did was chop some vegetables and throw them in the oven, but still."

"Well I'm certainly looking forward to it," she said. "And—have you dusted?"

"I have," Harry said, a bit more proudly than warranted. "I may have slept for sixteen hours, but after that, productivity all the way."

"Your work certainly paid off," she replied. They sat at the kitchen table, waiting for dinner to be done.

"Harry," Ron interrupted. "The piano. I want to hear about this piano business."

"You're blowing the whole thing out of proportion," Harry said. "Really. We ran into each other as I was coming in and he was leaving, and it just sort of came up."

"How does a piano 'sort of come up'?" Ron asked.

"I don't know," Harry said, annoyed. "How does anything come up? It just did."

"What was he even doing in the atrium?" Ron questioned, and Harry could see his Auror training kicking into action. This was ridiculous. "The Department of Mysteries has its own Floo, and, if the rumors are true, you can apparate straight in and out, if you know the code."

Hermione sighed. "There is no code for apparation, Ron."

"Well maybe—"

The oven timer went off, and Harry was more than happy to extract himself from the conversation. He loaded the freshly washed dishes with dinner and floated a jug of iced tea out of the refrigerator. Conversation lulled as they ate, and Harry was extremely annoyed that he needed to be thinking of excuses rather than just enjoying his meal.

Then the obvious hit, and he smirked around his food, fully prepared for Ron's next question. He also made a mental note to owl Malfoy and tell him, just in case he had decided on a different lie.

"Okay, so, for whatever reason, Malfoy was in the atrium," Ron said. "Why did you even talk to him?"

"I don't know," Harry said proudly. "He's in the Department of Mysteries. He talked to me first. For all I know they've got a file on everything in Grimmauld Place and he saw the piano on the list. You'd have to ask him yourself."

That did indeed seem to stump Ron, at least for now, though conversation stayed on work. Hermione asked after the second phase of MuggleWatch, which Harry was really not in the mood to discuss, and Ron once again welcomed him back to the Auror department. There was a raid scheduled for Tuesday, and if Harry was done with the MuggleWatch business, he was coming. Before he had been drafted away Harry usually led raids, not hanging back and covering others, but he didn't know anything about the case, and anything was better than paperwork.

After dinner, as promised, Ron and Harry played a great deal of chess before Harry got frustrated at losing and insisted they switch over to Exploding Snaps. Harry started lagging around eight but Hermione, who was on the couch reading up about house elf rights, insisted he stay up until at least ten. Ron attempted to wake him up by having him eat a Canary Cream, but that only caused Harry to be tired _and_ covered in feathers, which he found very irritating.

Hermione tried to find something interesting on the telly, but the only choices were Muggle news, which Harry refused to listen to due to MuggleWatch, a wizard soap opera, and a Muggle cartoon show that seemed to consist of nothing other than a fat man fighting a human-sized chicken to the death. Ron asked why he bothered having Muggle stations at all and Harry shot back that it was _his_ dad who had given him the telly and it was hardly his fault.

Just as Harry was about to go to bed, Hermione be damned, a letter shot through the mail slot with so much force it rocketed down the hallway, flying past the entrance to the sitting room. Heaving a huge sigh, Harry pulled himself to his feet and plodded after it. He collapsed back onto the couch next to Hermione and unfolded the parchment.

_Potter—_

_Greg Goyle has the weekend off, and he has been persuaded into helping me move the piano. Would Saturday afternoon be convenient? I don't believe it will be too difficult, though I've never tried apparating something so heavy before. Astoria has already reclaimed her piano, so we need only put yours in the proper place._

_I spoke with a dealer of antique musical instruments, and he informed me your piano is, quite literally, priceless. I find myself at a loss as to what to offer you in exchange; think it over, would you? I do not take handouts._

—_Malfoy_

Harry held up the note triumphantly. "See? Ron, do you see? He's insisting on paying me even when I couldn't care less. I told you, it's nothing."

Ron skimmed the letter. "I suppose," he admitted. "Though he better pay you back for spending an afternoon with Goyle, too. He was bad enough at school, let alone after prison guard training and spending the majority of his time in Azkaban."

"I'll survive," Harry said. "Probably." The thought of being in the admittedly creepy basement with only two Slytherins to keep him company was a bit worrisome, but he thought he could handle himself. He was an Auror, after all. "Be right back, my quills and parchment are in the study."

_Malfoy—_

_Tomorrow afternoon's fine. See you around two?_

_Also, I've told Ron we happened to run into each other in the atrium and you had some sort of secret file on me and Grimmauld Place, which is how you knew I had a piano. Hope that makes some amount of sense._

—_Potter_

He sent Brian off with the note and returned to his sitting room. "I want to go to bed," he said, curling up on the couch, using Hermione's lap as a pillow. "I'm tired. You're not my mom, you can't make me stay up."

"Of course I can't," Hermione said. "I can, however, remind you of how miserable you were at work yesterday and today. If you go to bed now you'll be up at four or five in the morning. Does that sound appealing?"

Harry sighed. "No."

"Another hour," Hermione said soothingly.

Harry sighed again. "Fine, but I'm turning the telly back on, even if the only thing is bollocks Muggle shows. I can't think anymore." It turned out that _was_ the only thing on, still the cartoon with the fat man, though he was no longer attempting to kill a chicken. Harry got shoved over, Ron insisting he ought to be the one snuggling with Hermione seeing as how they were dating, and Harry was tired enough he just used Ron as a pillow instead. He wished he had a camera; Hermione reading, Ron with an arm wrapped around her lovingly, Harry half asleep on the couch. It summed up their friendship perfectly.

The show switched, at least Harry thought it did, to another cartoon, rendered in the same style, though now the father was trim and his wife was blonde instead of ginger. Plus the talking dog had been replaced by a German fish, and an alien. He had a lot of trouble following the plot, which seemed to center on the dad pooping in a pool, and something about the American president.

After what seemed like eons the show ended. Harry kicked his friends out and went to bed immediately.


	8. Chapter 8: Managing the Manor

**A/N:** Sorry this is going up late! I'm in the midst of a breakdown and it took me hours and hours to get out of bed (I managed by bringing all my blankets down with me so technically I'm still in bed, just not on my mattress). Also, I'm sorry for the short chapters! I usually do longer ones, but this story just divided itself up this way. Not to worry, there are a bunch of chapters, though! Eighteen, I think? Lots.

Also, I finished my newest story last night! It's Snarry, for those of you who enjoy such things (of age, I promise), and based off that time I TOUCHED SNAPE'S CUFFS (I will never get over this you have no idea). It's called Starched Cuffs, and when this story is done being published, I'll start on that one.

Enjoy this chapter, and know that the rating is going up to M soon; the chapter after next, I believe. But it's coming up!

**Chapter Eight**

_**Managing the Manor**_

**14**

Harry woke up to the doorbell ringing. He was momentarily confused before remembering Malfoy and Goyle were coming over to take the piano—but wasn't that in the middle of the afternoon?

…shit.

Harry threw on a pair of jeans and an old tee shirt before sprinting downstairs. The opened the door and was greeted by Malfoy and Malfoy alone.

"Where's Goyle?" Harry asked, a bit out of breath. Malfoy was staring at him, eyeing his scruffy outfit, his unruly hair and general I-just-slept-for-sixteen-hours-for-the-second-night-in-a-row-and-forgot-to-shower appearance. Harry sighed. "I know, I look like shit. Can we get a move on?"

Malfoy shook himself. "Yeah, sorry. Goyle decided he had better things to do with his weekend off than help me move," he said distastefully. "Something about a girl, I think." Both Malfoy and Harry shuddered at the idea. "Anyway, if you don't mind, I still think we can manage. My father apparated his entire bedroom set to Luxembourg by himself, we should be able to handle a single piano."

"We can try," Harry said apprehensively. "We'll have to do Side-Along, I don't know where we're going."

"Just the Manor," Malfoy said, following Harry down to the basement.

"I've only been there once," Harry said angrily. "If you remember."

Malfoy coughed. "Er, right. Side-Along it is."

Harry's apprehension grew as the piano came in sight. It was bigger than he remembered. And heavier-looking. "This seems like a bad idea," he said.

"It'll be fine," Malfoy said. "We should stand as far apart as possible, to maximize our hold."

"You'll still need to hold onto me, though," Harry reminded him.

"Of course," Malfoy replied. "You stand on this side, I'll take the other."

"This is a terrible idea," Harry said. They were touching, technically, fingertips entwined, accomplished by leaning over the piano on tiptoes. Their other hands were gripping the underside of the piano. "Really. This is the definition of splicing."

"No, we're fine," Malfoy said. "But we have to go now, I can't hold on to you much longer."

"Wait, no—" The crushing feeling of apparation, how the piano was placed exactly to dig into his stomach, absolutely positive he was going to be split in half. Then they landed, amazingly in one piece. Harry stumbled back, clutching at his stomach. "Merlin," he gasped.

"Bloody hell that was awful," Malfoy groaned, also holding his middle. He gave a few coughs, then straightened. "Ready to go back for the bench?"

Harry groaned. "How about I stay here and you go? I've done enough apparating for now."

"Fine, I'll be right back." Malfoy disappeared with a pop and, after long enough Harry was started to get worried, reappeared. "Sorry, I ended up in the guest room, and I couldn't find my way down." He set the bench down, stepped back and eyed the piano. "Help me move it, would you? Just a bit to the left?"

Harry glared at him. "That thing must weigh a thousand pounds."

"It's on wheels," Malfoy said as if it was obvious. "Come on. Please?"

Harry half-smiled, half-smirked. "You've been saying please a lot lately. It suits you."

Malfoy sighed. "Yes, yes, I've grown up, I'm a better person, I know. Now help me move the damned thing, would you?"

"You're ridiculous," Harry said, as he walked over to the piano. "What are we doing exactly?"

Malfoy came to stand next to him, oddly closely. "Just push. We only need to move it half a foot or so."

"Finicky prat," Harry muttered, though he did push. It stuck for a moment, then rolled into position. "All right, are we done?"

"Yeah, it looks fine," Malfoy said. He swished his wand and the dust disappeared, revealing just how battered the instrument was. It may be in tune, but the lid was cracked, the back leg missing—must be another enchantment to keep it standing—and the keys were horribly chipped. "Well, the positioning at least. I'll have to hire someone to restore it, but at least Astoria's off my back." He played a few stray notes and smiled. "And I can still play in the meantime."

"So, er, I was rushing, and I forgot my wand," Harry said. "Would you mind taking me home?"

Malfoy jerked away from the keys. "Oh! Yes, of course." He walked over to Harry, started to hold his arm out, then hesitated. "Have you come up with a payment? I need you to sign for the piano—divorce proceedings, don't ask—so we might as well settle the debt. Besides, we're already in my Manor. Surely there's something I can give you."

Harry flushed. "I'll sign, but really, I don't need anything."

Malfoy smirked, or was it a coy, half-smile? "I already owe you a bed-debt, don't add a piano-debt to the list."

Harry laughed, which was weird, because Malfoy was making a joke, and it wasn't at his expense. "Let's start with that paperwork, okay?"

"Fair enough." Malfoy led the way to his study through a maze of corridors Harry would never remember. He pulled a manila folder off the desk and started flipping through it. "Hmm, I know it's around here somewhere—ah, yes, here we go." He pulled out a form and handed Harry a quill. "It merely states the piano was given to me after the divorce, never previously belonged to me, and is in no way affiliated with Astoria."

"Right," Harry said, signing. "So how long is it going to take? The rest of the divorce, I mean."

Malfoy carefully returned the form to his folder. "We have a meeting on Monday and, against all odds, it should be over and done with by four or five."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. "Oh! I thought these things took longer."

Malfoy shrugged. "Like I said, we're getting along quite well now. As long as she doesn't pull a last-minute tantrum—which wouldn't be a huge surprise—we're done."

"Congratulations, I guess," Harry said awkwardly. "Is that right?"

Malfoy laughed a little. "Yeah, why not. At least I don't have to apparate to a different country to pick up men anymore. I'm officially free of all marital obligations. Not that I wasn't before, but now it's socially acceptable."

Harry, who hadn't had time to pick anyone up, let alone form a real relationship, could relate. "I'm surprised you have the time," he replied, jealousy making him a little meaner than necessary. "You said the Department of Mysteries had you doing all-nighters."

Malfoy frowned. "Well, yes, sometimes. Still, I assume I can sneak in a quick shag a few times a week. I am devastatingly attractive, you know."

Harry laughed again, still awkwardly. Now they were talking about Malfoy's sex life. Which was completely normal. He wasn't sure how to reply. "Um. Yeah."

"I'm sorry, am I making you uncomfortable?" Malfoy asked. "I figured, given everything I said while drunk, I can't make it much worse."

"I suppose," Harry said uncomfortably.

"That's a thing friends do, right? Talk about sex?" Malfoy asked, making that same half-smirk, half-smile. He was slipping back into his Slytherin ways in words and physicality. He was leaning against his desk, legs crossed, looking at his fingernails as if Harry wasn't worth the effort even to look at. Then he glanced up through his fringe. "Or should I wait until we're drunk?"

"Er, no, it's fine," Harry said. "I'd share, if I had anything to share."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow delicately. "The great Harry Potter can't get a shag? Heaven help the rest of us."

Harry flushed. "I could, probably. I was on the nightshift for so long, I never had time. And, y'know, the Auror department is pretty demanding. A lot of late nights."

Malfoy shrugged. "I'm busier than you, and I was—er, still am, I guess—married, and I made time. It's all about priorities."

This was really, really awkward. Did Malfoy know? Was that his point, to make Harry feel awkward? Or was he really just treating him as a friend? "I'm more of a real relationship guy than one-night stands, and so, y'know, clubs aren't that helpful."

"I see," Malfoy replied. "You actually expected to be an Auror _and_ find a serious relationship? You're quite daft, Potter."

"Well, um," Harry stammered. Then he sighed. "Yeah, probably."

"You need to get out more," Malfoy said decisively. "Ministry parties at the very least, though really any social contact would do. If you're this awkward around me, how do you expect to talk to a girl?"

Harry's blush deepened. "I'm not too worried about talking to girls."

Both of Malfoy's eyebrows raised. "You're gay?"

"Er," Harry said. "Yeah. I mean…Well, yes, I mean that. Don't tell anyone, all right? Just between us."

"If you insist," Malfoy said. "Though it's going to be significantly harder to find a boyfriend if you won't admit you want one."

"I'm admitting it," Harry said defensively. "Just, y'know, not to anyone else."

Malfoy's smirk widened. "You're significantly reducing your pool of available men in that case."

Harry thought he must have been as red as a Weasley. "I just—the moment—'Oh, hey guys, guess what, I'm gay!', that's not really office talk."

"Just send an anonymous letter to the _Prophet_, you'll have the entire gay wizarding population knocking on your door," Malfoy said, still with that obnoxious smirk.

"Yeah, no, I'm just fine," Harry said. "There's no point when I don't have time for a proper relationship. It'll happen when it happens."

"Indeed," Malfoy said in a way that caused Harry's stomach to flip uncomfortably. Then he softened. "As long as things are just between us, I happen to be torn on the subject. A big part of me is excited that I'm finally _free_ and wants to go out and have casual sex with everyone I can. Then—and you have to understand, this is very odd for me, and nothing like I've ever felt before—there's another part that, after that disaster with Astoria, wants to have something real." A slight pink tint high on his cheeks. "We never had anything approaching real, given that I'm gay and she just didn't give a shit. It might be—interesting, perhaps. However," he added, sounding much more like himself, "I think I'm due a few meaningless shags to celebrate my divorce before trying to settle down again."

"I think that's traditional," Harry said with a smile. "The post-divorce sex spree."

Malfoy laughed. "I assume you won't mind, then, if on Friday I don't leave with you." Oh, that's right, they were going out for drinks on Friday. Harry was thinking more of a small pub than a gay club, but apparently not. "Potter," Malfoy groaned. "Are you upset because you're jealous, because you thought we were going to continue our drinking at home, or because you're scared of a good gay bar?"

Harry flushed. "None of those," he said firmly. "I'm not upset."

"You're such a liar," Malfoy said with that idiotically annoying half-smirk, half-smile. "But that's quite all right. There's nothing special about Friday, I can get a shag whenever I want. Friday night I'm all yours."

Once again, Harry's blush darkened. "I didn't mean it like that," he said, "because I didn't say anything at all! You're just so egotistical you think the entire world revolves around you."

"Oh no, Astoria taught me that lesson long ago," Malfoy said. "She also taught me to recognize upset very, very quickly. But if you're in denial about that too, so it shall be."

"Okay, fine," Harry huffed. "I've never been to a gay bar, and I won't until I'm out. I don't fancy everyone finding out by _Daily Prophet_."

"Fair enough," Malfoy replied. "Though I still think you could get away with a Muggle bar. I should know, I frequent them myself. Another tidbit between just us. I still despise Muggles, don't get me wrong, but I loathe being in the papers even more."

Harry was fairly certain Malfoy was asking him to go to a gay bar. With the proviso that he would be going home with someone else. But no, Malfoy had said that Friday night was all his. Which left Harry where exactly? "I—I suppose," he stammered. There was no way he would be picking up anyone, but there wasn't any reason he should prevent Malfoy from doing so. And wasn't there something about needing a wingman, whatever that was?

"We'll make a game of it," Malfoy said. "Whoever gets picked up first gets to chose the next bar."

"No," Harry said immediately. "I'm not leaving with anyone. Relationship, not a one-time shag, remember? Besides, I don't know any bars. That's your business."

"Oh, come off it," Malfoy said, though he was still smiling. "You're off MuggleWatch. You deserve your own celebratory shag."

"No, really," Harry protested. "I'm fine. I'm going on a raid Tuesday. That's all the celebration I need."

"You're so bloody boring," Malfoy said. "And such a Gryffindor. I assure you, Potter, a one-off doesn't make you any less of the Golden Boy. It just means you're a relaxed, sated Golden Boy instead of tightly wound and irritable."

"No," Harry said again. "I'm not—"

"Oh Merlin," Malfoy interrupted. "You haven't come out to anyone at all, have you? You're still a virgin?"

Harry flushed immediately and darkly, rendering his words irrelevant. "No."

Malfoy laughed. "You've got to let that go one day, Potter. Can't stay a virgin forever."

"I also don't have to lose it to some random bloke whose name I won't remember," Harry said sharply. This was something only Ron and Hermione knew, and he didn't discuss it with either of them, aside from Hermione occasionally and gently asking if he was making any progress. The two were also the only ones who knew he was gay, and while he thought theoretically their unerring support should be enough to come out, he had never gotten around to it.

"All right, okay, no need to get snippy," Malfoy replied lightly. "Just make sure you don't let the perfect opportunity pass you by."

Was that—no. No, definitely not. "Right, well, I'll keep an eye out," Harry said awkwardly. "So, um, you woke me up, and I haven't had anything to eat today, so I should probably go. Would you mind apparating me home?"

Malfoy shrugged. "I could, or you could just eat here. You've done so much for me, never mind when you saved my life in the war. The least I can do is feed you."

"Er, okay," Harry said. He had a strong suspicion Malfoy just didn't want to be alone, but Grimmauld Place was just as empty as Malfoy Manor, and it was nice having company.

"We'll have an early dinner," Malfoy said, leading him downstairs. "Then I think I'll go out for said celebration. You're welcome to tag along, though it seems you're above such things."

"Yes, because I'm the egotistical prat compared to you," Harry said. "What're we having for dinner, then?"

"Whatever Daisy made," he said. They paused in the dining room, though that didn't seem a grand enough word. The table was very long and made of a dark wood. The walls were adorned with portraits of Malfoy ancestors. For the first time since Harry arrived, he felt unwelcomed. "Let's eat in the kitchen," Malfoy said. "I've all but abandoned the dining room, it's far too big for just me."

"Yeah, that'd be good," Harry said, quickly following Malfoy out of the room.

The kitchen was quite large, smelled delicious, and had a table and chairs tucked into a sunny corner. There was a house elf at the stove with abnormally long ears, stirring a large pot. She squeaked when they entered.

"Master Malfoy! Daisy has not finished dinner, sir! Daisy thought Master would be eating later! Would Master like Daisy to punish herself or continue cooking? Daisy doesn't think she can do both."

"Just finish the soup," Malfoy said, seating himself at the table. "Is there enough for two?"

"Yes, Master!"

"Fine, then."

Harry sat opposite Malfoy, and they chatted amicably until the soup was ready. Conversation had turned to less awkward topics, and Harry found that, against all odds, he was happy and relaxed, despite eating dinner with Malfoy in his Manor.

Malfoy pushed his bowl away when he finished, stretching elegantly. "I'm going to change and head out," he said. "Last chance to come with."

"I'm not going to pick anyone up," Harry said firmly.

"Then have a few drinks and dance," Malfoy replied. "Maybe a quick snog, if you're up to the task. It'll be fun, I promise."

Throwing all caution and common sense to the wind, Harry said, "Okay."


	9. Chapter 9: Cruising the Club

**A/N:** Y'know those days where your alarm clock doesn't go off so you're up to late, you feel like you're going to throw up, you can't think straight because everything is all fuzzy and life sucks? I hate those days.

But enjoy the new chapter, and I'll see you on the other side of the weekend.

Oh, though, quick note: if anyone has any plot bunnies lying around, I'd love to hear about them! Any combination of Harry/Draco/Snape is good with me, and I can't guarantee to be inspired, but I'm so stuck and help?

**Chapter Nine**

_**Cruising the Club**_

**15**

"You'll need to wear something else, of course," Malfoy said, leading Harry upstairs to his room. "I'll take you somewhere tame for your first time, but scuffed jeans and a ripped shirt are never appropriate, no matter how lowly the club."

"I'm pretty sure I don't have anything you'd deem appropriate," Harry said, taking in Malfoy's room. In some ways it was very expected—a large bed with Slytherin colored bedclothes, a matching dresser and vanity, an antique chaise. But there were windows everywhere, dispelling any and all shadows, and bookshelves filled the rest of the wall. "I've got Auror robes and old Muggle clothes. That's about it."

Malfoy sighed. "I should have known." He took in Harry's appearance. "You're not even wearing shoes?"

Harry flushed. "I—you—I overslept," he stammered. "And then we were here, with the piano, and I didn't need shoes for signing papers or eating dinner, so no, I'm not wearing shoes."

"You are quite the piece of work," Malfoy said. "You may borrow an outfit from me as long as you return it in impeccable condition."

Harry snorted. "I don't think we're the same size."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "There's this thing, Potter, called magic. It comes in handy sometimes. Now stop lurking around. Sit, and I will find something suitable." Harry perched on the edge of the bed trying not to be annoyed as Malfoy went through his closet. "I think, given your lack of experience with either style or clubs, you'd do best in plain black. Perhaps, if you don't humiliate me so thoroughly I can't bear the thought of going out with you again, you can move onto colors."

What was it, exactly, that made Harry think Malfoy was a reasonable person? "If you're going to be this much of a prat all night, I'll just go home," Harry replied testily.

"Calm down, Potter," Malfoy drawled. He pulled out a black button down and tossed it at Harry. "I'm only trying to help. Put this on."

Did—did he mean here, now? Harry hadn't been in the habit of changing in front of other guys since Hogwarts. Then again, it was just a shirt. He pulled off his ratty grey shirt and put on Malfoy's selection. It was sleek and silky, and enchanted to fit his body perfectly. He felt a little ridiculous, and wished for his tee shirt, however ripped it was.

"These, too," Malfoy added, throwing a pair of dark, inky jeans at him. "You won't be at the height of fashion, but you should be respectable."

"And you?" Harry asked touchily. "What will you be wearing?"

"Just this," Malfoy replied, then smiled that crooked grin again. "I wouldn't want to outshine the Golden Boy, now would I?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "You're a prat."

"Shoes are going to be the real problem," Malfoy said with a frown. He walked into his closet, and Harry changed into the jeans very quickly. They were also enchanted to fit, but they were still too tight.

"Malfoy, these pants are ridiculous," he said, standing up and trying to look at himself from all angles. "They're way too tight."

Malfoy stuck his head out of the closet. "No, that's how they're supposed to fit." He retreated into the closet and Harry shifted around uncomfortably, trying to stretch the fabric. It had some give, but molded itself back to his body as soon as he relaxed. Harry sighed. This was why he never went out. The odds of finding someone who wanted anything more than a quick shag while dressed like this were approximately zero. Not that he thought he looked particularly good; in fact, the opposite. He clearly looked so ridiculous there was no way anyone would be able to take him seriously.

"This was a bad idea," Harry said. "I feel ridiculous. I _look _ridiculous. Your clothes are very much yours and not mine, plus my hair is awful."

Malfoy emerged, holding a pair of short, black boots with silver buckles on the side. "No, you have bedhead. It's a good thing."

"But you don't—"

"I have a very different look than you," Malfoy interrupted. "I'd look ridiculous with tousled hair. You look like you've just been shagged. In a _good_ way, Potter," he added at Harry's expression.

There was so much to argue about Harry didn't know where to start. "My hair is ridiculous," he repeated. "These jeans are too tight. Those shoes have buckles on them."

"You're wrong on all accounts, except for the boots. And take them, would you? I don't fancy carrying around your shoes all night."

Harry sighed and tugged them on even as he argued. "You look sharp and put together. I look like somebody's failed attempt at class."

"Failed, have I?" Malfoy asked dangerously. "I can take those clothes back any time I want, Potter, and leave you here, wandless, waiting until I get in before I take you home. For all you know that might not be until tomorrow. Now stop complaining and take advantage of my generosity."

Harry sighed again. The shoes were also enchanted to fit, so he couldn't complain they were too small. He stood, crossing his arms, and glaring moodily at Malfoy. "There," he said. "Are you happy?"

Malfoy considered. "Just about." He picked up a bottle of something, squeezed a clear, viscous gel onto his hands and rubbed them together. "Your perfect bedhead, I-just-got-shagged look is a little too on the I-don't-know-how-to-have-hair side," he said. "Stay still." He ran his hands through Harry's hair, and Harry nearly jerked away at the sudden intimacy. The only person who had touched his hair was Hermione, when they were on the road looking for Horcruxes and he needed comfort. Nobody else dared to go near it. But, he discovered, it was nice. Malfoy was gently massaging his head, occasionally running his fingernails along his scalp, and Harry didn't know why that would feel good, but it did. Then he stepped back and magicked his hands clean. "Much better. Shall we go?"

Harry resisted the urge to attempt to smooth his hair. "Um. Yes."

Malfoy laid a hand on his arm and they popped away.

They reappeared in a dark alley, much too similar to Harry's patrols to be welcome.

"Where are we?" he asked irritably.

Malfoy shot him a look of exasperation. "We can't very well apparate directly into a Muggle club, now can we?" Oh, right. That. Harry followed him around to the front of the building and they entered the club.

It wasn't what Harry expected. There were no strobe lights, no pounding bass, nobody writhing half-naked on the dance floor. Instead there was a bar along one wall, a few small tables along the other, a stage in front and a dance floor in the middle. The DJ was playing dance music, of course, but not so loudly Harry couldn't hear himself think, and Malfoy only had to raise his voice a little to be heard.

"Drinks?"

"Yeah," Harry replied. Even if it wasn't as intimidating as he had thought, he could certainly use a drink or two. They seated themselves on barstools, and Malfoy ordered a Grey Goose and Hendricks martini dry. The bartender looked at Harry expectantly, and he flushed, realizing he didn't know anything other than Firewhiskey, mead and the occasional wine.

"Er—"

Malfoy sighed patiently, as if talking to a small child. "How strong do you want it?"

"Not very," he said, trying to be quiet but still needing to be heard above the music.

Malfoy smirked. "Don't trust yourself when you drink? I sense an interesting story. But back on topic, do you like your drinks sweet? Creamy or fruity?"

"Creamy?" Harry said, hoping that sounded less girly, since he was already making an arse out of himself.

Malfoy's smirk widened. "One Orgasm for my friend. And make it tall." Harry gaped at him, and he laughed. "You'll just love it, I'm sure."

Harry made eye contact only with the bottles of liquor behind the bar as they waited for their drinks. He was even more intimidated when it arrived. "This is huge."

Malfoy laughed again. "A huge orgasm? I see no reason to complain." Harry flushed and kept his eyes on his drink. "Don't worry, that just means there's more cream and it's less alcoholic. Go ahead, give it a go." He sipped his own drink, then looked up at Harry through thick lashes.

Very reluctantly, Harry picked up the glass and had the tiniest of sips. It was pretty good, actually. He took a bigger sip. "Yeah, I like it," Harry said, trying out his own smirk. "Thanks for the orgasm, Malfoy."

"The pleasure is all mine, I assure you." Malfoy turned so he could watch the crowd as he drank. "Since you can't leave without me, I suppose I'm not bringing anyone home tonight," he said with a sigh. "Never again are we going drinking without your own means of transportation. I don't suppose you have any money for the Tube?"

"No," Harry said uncomfortably. "I told you, all I had was what I was wearing. I wasn't planning on spending the night with you."

Malfoy smirked. "Is that what you're doing?"

Harry flushed again. This was awful. He wanted to go back home, to get into his pajamas and crawl into bed and never have to talk about any of this ever again. "You know what I meant. And if you find the perfect shag, just excuse yourself to the loo and apparate me home from there."

"Sharp mind, Potter," Malfoy said. "Look, see the one in the red shirt? What do you think?"

Harry scanned the crowd. There were several red-shirted men, none of whom he found particularly attractive. "You could do better."

Malfoy laughed again. Harry had never heard him laugh so much before. It was disconcerting. "I could _always_ do better. The question is how low do I have to stoop, and is it worth it?"

Harry returned his attentions to the crowd. It might be interesting, to try and figure out Malfoy's type beyond young, virile and French. He settled on as average a man as he could find, to test the waters, so to speak. "That one, in the white shirt who's dancing with the tall bloke."

"Him?" Malfoy asked, gesturing. "No. He's got honey blonde hair, it doesn't go well with my skin tone. It makes me look sickly."

Harry had to stifle a laugh. "All right, what about the tall one, then?"

"Too tall," Malfoy said immediately. "It's so awkward dancing with someone who's taller than you."

"I suppose I'll have to get used to that," Harry said. "Doubt there's anyone here shorter than me."

Malfoy smiled. "Perhaps not. Moving on, see the one in the corner, sandwiched between those two? What do you think?"

"Slutty," Harry replied, and Malfoy let out a snort. "What? He's grinding on two guys at once. You must be more discerning than that."

"Well yes, but he's hot," Malfoy replied. "I'm a sucker for dark hair, what can I say?"

Harry flushed. "Short and dark haired. You sure you're not describing me?"

Malfoy smirked. "In your dreams, Potter. Now come on, help me pick someone out." It seemed they went through half the club before Malfoy got bored and declared there was no one worthy of his time.

"Onto the next?" Harry asked. His drink was half-finished, but he was actually enjoying checking out guys with a friend. He'd never been able to do that before.

"No, no," Malfoy chastised. "We're surrounded by eligible bachelors, and you've never been to a club before. You've got to give dancing a go before we leave."

"No," Harry said firmly. "No, I can't dance, I'm not embarrassing myself."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "I've dressed you, I've ordered your drink, do you really need me to teach you to dance as well?"

"No," Harry repeated. "I'm not dancing. I dance alone, in my house, in my bedroom, with protection charms spanning the block. I do not dance in public."

Malfoy gave him a funny look. "If you're not here to hook up, and you refuse to dance, what was the point of coming out with me at all?"

Harry had forgotten that particular piece of information. "I was curious," he said. "I've never been to a gay bar before."

Malfoy placed his drink on the counter, then forcibly took Harry's and set it down. "Come on," Malfoy said, grabbing his arm. "I've got you all gussied up, I want to show you off."

That wasn't an uncomfortable sentence in the slightest. "Malfoy, really, the last time I danced was the Yule Ball, and I'm pretty sure you were laughing the loudest. I only know how to ballroom dance, and I'm bollocks at it. There is no way I can do this."

They were now in the middle of the crowd, and it was impossible not to stand very close indeed. "Turn around," Malfoy said. He gave Harry a genuine smile to calm his anxiety. "Trust me."

Very nervously, Harry turned around. Malfoy put his hands on Harry's hips and started swaying in time with the music.

"Move your hips," he said and when Harry didn't, he did it for him, tightening his grasp and moving them in a circle. "And do something with your hands."

Harry's brain was a complete fog. The music, the bodies pressing in, dancing with Malfoy, the slight buzz of the alcohol. He had no idea if this is what Malfoy had meant, but he laced his hands together behind Malfoy's neck and rested them there. Malfoy hummed contentedly and moved closer, eliminating some of the pressure on Harry's shoulders.

"Listen to the music," Malfoy said, lips right next to Harry's ear. "Can you feel the beat?" He tapped his fingers on Harry's hip in time with the song. "You're thinking too much. Just move."

Only Harry wasn't thinking at all. Was this really what clubbing was about? If it was, he had certainly been missing out. There was a small voice in the back of his head trying to say that this was _not_ normal, he wasn't picking anyone up, he wasn't out for a snog or a shag, he was just dancing with a friend. Which was weird, because that friend was Malfoy. But he did dance, sort of, and Malfoy guided him so he didn't do anything too stupid, and this wasn't dancing so much as moving in time to a beat, and that wasn't too hard.

Malfoy's lips were back at his ear, breathing softly. "How much do you want to learn?" he asked. "This is polite, I'm-not-interested-in-you-please-go-away dancing. I think you should be equipped for more pleasurable circumstances, but if you're too honorable…"

Harry wanted to blame the drink, but he'd only had half a watered down martini over the course of a half hour or forty-five minutes, and the electricity shooting through him had nothing to do with an orgasm.

At least not that kind.

"Go ahead."


	10. Chapter 10: Teaching the Tenderfoot

**A/N:** You guys. Oh my lord you guys. Over the weekend I got a Kindle Paperwhite and a Galaxy S3. Really good weekend. It also means that my giant stack of HP books I have to lug around with my that are literally falling apart at the seams is now reduced to a teeny tiny tablet whose pages won't separate from the binding and make me cry because I've had the Sorcerer's Stone for fifteen years and it turning into multiple pieces feels like the death of a best friend.

**WARNING:** Sexytimes! Between two of-age consenting males. Quite tame for me, if you know my writing. Still quite enjoyable, I think. Please note that the rating of Sidetracked is now up to M!

**Chapter Ten**

_**Teaching the Tenderfoot**_

**16**

Malfoy's grip tightened again and he drew Harry closer, so they were pressed together. Malfoy held him in place, slowly gyrating against him. His lips brushed Harry's ear, then down the side of his neck, never more than the lightest of touches. Harry forgot how to breathe or move or think so he just stayed where he was, standing still while Malfoy moved against him. Malfoy released his hold on one side, running his hand along Harry's side and back down as lightly as his lips, then again, pressing his hand against Harry, almost enough to untuck his shirt. Harry kept one hand on Malfoy's neck and put the other on his, following his movements.

Malfoy's lips slid back up to his ear. "Tell me what happened the last time you drank."

Harry could barely understand his words, let alone remember the story or generate a reply. But Malfoy let him take his time, and eventually he found his voice. "Hermione was spending the week on holiday with her parents, and Ron was staying with me. The last night we got completely smashed, finished one of the big bottles of Firewhiskey, and, well, we caught a Muggle movie about zombies on the telly, and that reminded me of the Inferi, and Ron just sort of giggled and thought I was being ridiculous, and when it was over he insisted on getting into bed with me, to 'fight away the baddies', I think he put it. And then I kissed him. And, well, that ended about as badly as expected. Ron couldn't look at me for weeks, and Hermione didn't speak to me for a fortnight. That, um, may have been how I came out to them."

Malfoy laughed, sending shivers down Harry's spine. "Perhaps you should get drunk then," he said. "If it'll loosen you up. The whole point of going out is to _relax_, not worry."

"No," Harry said. "Ron wasn't about to shag me. I don't trust some random bloke to have the same moral values, even if I was coherent enough to say no. I told you already, I'm not wasting my first time on a single drunken encounter."

"I wasn't implying that," Malfoy said. "You're so bloody stiff, dancing with you is like dancing with a tree. You said you wanted to learn how to do this properly, yet you completely froze up the second I moved against you. Merlin, Potter, surely you can handle a little necking. Which, for the record, that was not."

Feeling stupidly brave, Harry declared, "Then let's go back to the bar and get smashed."

Malfoy stopped moving entirely. His hands were still on Harry's hips, Harry's hand covering one, his other on the back of Malfoy's neck. They were almost completely pressed together. Harry could feel his heart beating against his back, a far better beat than the Muggle music.

"You sure?"

"As long as you promise to make sure I don't do something stupid," Harry said. "Nothing below the waist, all right?"

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "And anything else?"

Harry paused for a minute. "Fair game."

Malfoy let out a deep breath, and Harry shivered. "Then let's get you liquored up."

Malfoy still ordered their drinks, but he dispensed with any sense of decorum and just requested two shot glasses and a bottle of tequila. His eyes were locked on Harry's as they picked up their glasses. Harry's hand was trembling and the realization that it came from Malfoy's molten eyes rather than what he was about to do—which, really, wasn't much, it wasn't like he hadn't snogged before—was like a light going on. Of course that's why he had been so nice to Malfoy, why he'd stayed with him while he threw up, while he agreed to go out with him. It was those eyes.

"Ready?" Malfoy asked.

Harry nodded.

"On three then."

From the moment the first drop of alcohol hit his lips he was burning. Lips, tongue, throat stomach, all on fire. Firewhiskey may have the name, but tequila brought actual flames. Harry coughed, and Malfoy laughed.

"Again."

After the third shot Malfoy declared that was enough. Harry was grateful; his stomach was churning in a way that was almost good, he thought he might not be able to walk quite steadily, and Malfoy kept shifting in and out of focus. He wanted to tell Malfoy he wanted to dance again, but he kept getting distracted by those silver eyes.

"Ready to dance?" Malfoy asked.

"Absolutely."

Harry was less aware of the crush of bodies around him and much more focused on his hand, which Malfoy had taken as he led them onto the floor. His skin was wonderfully soft and oddly warm; he never would have thought Malfoy to have warm hands. He thought about telling him—he was drunk, after all, so he had an excuse to say whatever he wanted. But maybe not yet, maybe they should dance first.

Then Malfoy stopped and once again pulled Harry to him, and they still weren't facing, and Harry wondered if that was how all dancing was, or just Malfoy's particular quirk. In any case he didn't mind, and this time it was much easier to move with Malfoy, to settle into the rhythm of the music and his hands on his hips, and, still distracted by how soft his hands were, kept his on Malfoy's, fingers falling between his so they were holding hands on his hips and, mm, that was nice.

"Isn't this better?" Malfoy asked, breathing into his ear, and Harry nodded. His breath was warm, too, and smelled of liquor in a sexy, treacherous sort of way. He knew it was stupid to still think of alcohol as taboo since he was twenty-two, but he had never really been interested in it, especially after the incident with Ron. Malfoy was also taboo, or at least used to be, and while this sudden friendship between them was good and welcome, it still had that edge of danger.

"Yeah," Harry replied, not bother to attempt a longer answer. "This is good."

Malfoy laughed quietly. "Good." His tongue flitted out to lick Harry's earlobe, and Harry sighed, leaning back against him. He kissed Harry's neck, genuinely this time, kissed and sucked and licked and bit, moving down to where his neck met his shoulder, and there staked his claim, biting hard and sucking until a bruise formed. Harry's breathing sped up and when Malfoy stopped, he whimpered.

"Don't stop," Harry sighed, tightening his grip on Malfoy's hands.

That same quiet, husky laugh. "Your rules, Potter. Nothing below the waist."

"I said 'don't stop', not 'go lower'," Harry replied irritably. He tipped his head back and to the side, giving Malfoy easy access. "You were encouraging me to, what was it, necking? And a good snog?"

Malfoy paused for a split second. "You thought I meant partaking with me?"

"I don't know about then, but now I'm drunk, and I'm here, in your arms, so go on," Harry said.

"I suppose it is your turn to do something stupid while drunk," Malfoy mused.

Harry huffed. "It's not stupid, it was your idea." He paused. "I mean, you have stupid ideas all the time, but this one, loosening up, that wasn't stupid. Neither was snogging. I haven't snogged in ages."

Another pause. "Potter, you said you're only out to Granger and Weasley."

"Yeah, so?"

"And that you haven't been to a gay club before."

"I don't see your point."

"Was that drunken kiss with Weasley the only time you've kissed a boy?"

Harry's eyes widened. He'd forgotten that. "Oh. Um, yeah. So?"

Malfoy gently pushed him away and untangled their hands despite Harry's protests. "I'm sorry, I was wrong. I didn't know how inexperienced you are. You should wait."

Harry turned around and put his hands on Malfoy's shoulders, attempting to draw him closer. "No, it's fine," he said, and while he sounded sober, it was easy enough for Malfoy to see that he was anything but. "Please. Don't stop."

Malfoy sighed quietly. "Harry—"

Harry jerked away. "Never mind," he said. "I know that voice. That's the voice that means you're leaving."

Malfoy's eyebrows shot up. "What are you talking about?"

"When Cho left," Harry said. "When Ginny left. When Ron left in the forest. When Sirius was falling. That's the voice people who are leaving use." He felt himself start to tear up and had to look away, biting his cheek very hard. He wasn't upset that Malfoy didn't want him, that wasn't important. It was that leaving, always the leaving. And maybe he had thought Malfoy might want him, but he didn't, which wasn't really leaving so much as never having been there in the first place.

Bloody hell, apparently he was a weepy drunk. Brilliant.

"Take me home, will you?" he asked, halfway between bitter and completely worn out.

Malfoy cupped his face, moving him so they were looking at each other. His hands were giving off sparks. A weepy _and _a horny drunk? That didn't seem fair at all. "I'm not leaving you," Malfoy said seriously. "I'm also not going to kiss you. You need to be sober, for one thing. You need a relationship, you said that, and I'm hardly in a position to give you one. And—well, you deserve someone better than me."

Harry's stomach was churning and knotting and twisting endlessly and it felt like he was going to throw up but he hadn't had _that_ much to drink, and didn't it take longer to make you sick anyway? "Then take me home," he repeated. "I haven't got—"

"—Tube fare, I know," Malfoy interrupted before he could say anything about wands or Floo powder. "Come home with me, okay? You took care of me when I was drunk, I ought to return the favor."

Harry jerked away again. "I don't need your _favors_, Malfoy," he snapped. "I did what I did because I had no choice, because it was my job, and not at all because of your eyes, so just take me home already." Malfoy blinked, and that only made Harry angrier, because how could he not understand that he wanted to go home when he had said it over and over again? "I'm serious, Malfoy. If you don't I'll leave without you."

"Goddammit Potter," Malfoy said, voice starting to rise. "I'm trying to be nice, to take care of you like you took care of me. But fine, if you don't want it, I'll drop you off and that'll be that. But don't tell me I'm leaving you when I'm trying to convince you to come home with me." He grabbed Harry by the arm, dragged them into the loo and, after checking to make sure they were alone, apparated them to the guest room of Grimmauld Place. Malfoy let him go as soon as they landed. "There. You're home. I'll be on my way."

Harry reached out and stumbled slightly. Malfoy stepped forward, wrapping an arm around him to keep him from falling. "Please don't go," Harry said quietly, tucking himself into Malfoy's arms, nuzzling his head against his neck, reaching out for his hand and taking it between both of his. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have assumed, I just, I really don't want to be alone right now."

Malfoy sighed, pulling Harry closer. "It's okay," he said. "I won't go if you don't want me to."

Harry's insides were shriveling up. This was pathetic, utterly pathetic. He didn't want to kiss Malfoy, so what did it matter if Malfoy didn't want him either? But still, this was the first time he had tried anything, Ron notwithstanding, and to be shot down, and in that bloody tone of voice, that was bad enough. Then to beg for company? His head was swimming and it was awful and he just wanted to be left alone to wallow in self-pity but he couldn't because he'd asked Malfoy to stay, and so he was going to.

Suddenly that night two weeks ago when Malfoy begged for him made so much more sense. Only then there had been nothing about dancing or kissing and it had just been lonely and not downright pathetic.

Plus, Harry's neck was still tingling from where Malfoy's lips had been, especially that spot where—Merlin bloody fuck—he probably had a hickey, and both his hands were wrapped around Malfoy's and that was tingly too. The arm that was holding him was warm and comfy and deceptively caring, because there was no way Malfoy cared about anyone other than himself. His body was also warm and apparently at least somewhat toned, given the hardness. Whenever Harry shifted the silken shirt slipped against his torso, against his nipples, and he really didn't want to think about that right now but he couldn't really help it, not when everything was warm and tingly and also really, really awful.

"So what of it?" Malfoy asked after a minute or two of just standing there. "More alcohol? Food and water to sober up? Sleep?"

Harry was very tempted to say more alcohol, but there was no chance that would lead to anything good. But he was drunk, which meant his decision-making was off, so maybe the things that he thought were a bad idea were actually a _good_ idea, so he _should_ drink more. This was confusing. And still warm and tingly.

"Let's drink," Harry said. "I've got a bottle of Firewhiskey stashed away in case of emergency. Not that this is an emergency, mind you, but it's all I've got. C'mon, it's in my study." He pulled away from Malfoy but kept their hands together, leading him downstairs.

"Are you sure?" Malfoy asked. "You seem like you might be happier sobering up, not getting even more drunk."

"I'm not drunk," Harry lied. "I'm not slurring, I only stumbled when we apparated, and I was having fun dancing, and then I said something stupid, which happens, and the best way to fix stupidity is with more alcohol."

"Are you sure about that?" Malfoy asked as they entered the study.

"Yes, absolutely," Harry said. He started digging through his desk drawers and finally pulled out the bottle. "Sitting room," he added, once again taking Malfoy's hand though they were only walking across the hall. The tingles, they were too good to pass up. Besides, it wasn't like Malfoy was pulling away, or even resisting either the idea or the physical contact. He plopped down on the couch, and Malfoy sat next to him, considerably more elegantly, which didn't escape Harry's notice.

_I'm drunk_, he thought firmly. _I'm drunk and weepy and horny and I don't need to act on any of those things because I'm drunk._

He opened the bottle and took the first sip. It did burn, but nowhere near as much as the tequila. Also, it was familiar, and that was comforting. He passed the bottle to Malfoy, who took a deep swig.

"This isn't half bad," he said, taking another drink. He shivered noticeably, which Harry found oddly sexy.

"Yeah, I told you," Harry said. "More drinking is a good idea." He was starting to get the hang of this, and glugged back as much as Malfoy had. "Getting good at this," he said with a goofy smile, handing it back to Malfoy, who smiled and shook his head.

"If you weren't drunk before, you're well on your way," Malfoy said, though he still took a drink. "I'm just going to hold onto this for a bit, okay? You're not used to this, I don't want you to get sick."

"Why're you looking out for me?" Harry asked. "Since when are you nice? Is this just repaying a debt?" He knew what he was saying, he wasn't that drunk, but he could pretend he didn't, which gave him a lot of room to play with.

"I've told you, I've mellowed," Malfoy said. "I'm not a spoiled brat anymore. Well, y'know, mostly."

"Still, why me?" Harry asked. "Don't you hate me?"

"No, Potter, I don't hate you," Malfoy said. "I may have needed four years to get over myself, but I did. You're my friend, aren't you?"

"Sure," Harry said. "That's why you wanted me to go clubbing and drinking with you, to help out a friend, right?" It was dangerous territory—scratch that, stupid territory, because he knew what the answer was, but he could blame it on the alcohol.

Suddenly he wondered if Malfoy had used this faking technique on him.

"Yeah," Malfoy said. "I know you want a real relationship, but small steps, that's the way to go. You've got to get used to being out."

"I'm out," Harry said amicably. "With you. Though you're right, if I'm going to go around jumping every gay guy I know, that'd be a problem."

Malfoy considered him. "That's all that was? You seemed more—interested—than jumping the nearest guy. There were a lot of them, and they were checking you out."

Harry frowned. "No they weren't."

Malfoy laughed. "Of course they were, you looked brilliant, thanks to me. But that's not what I was saying."

Harry's frown deepened. "No?"

"No," Malfoy said, biting back more laughter. "No, I was saying that it seemed like you were interested in me. In my eyes, I believe you said."

Harry flushed. He had said that out loud? When, exactly? "No," Harry replied. "You're just sexy and gay and my friend. I've already told you about me and drinking and friends."

Malfoy grimaced. "Please refrain from comparing me to Weasley."

"He's nicer but you're hotter," Harry said. "I'd much rather shag you."

"Potter, you should stop talking," Malfoy said. "Before you say something you don't mean. Again."

"I meant it," Harry said. "You were the one who didn't."

"Stop," Malfoy said, nearly pleading.

Harry turned to face him. "Why?"

"Because you don't want to embarrass yourself," Malfoy answered. "You did the same for me, I believe."

"No, I told you not to talk about the Department of Mysteries," he said. "That's work, not how I feel. And I feel like kissing you. I thought you wanted to snog. I thought you wanted _me_ to snog. I really don't see what having a few drinks has to do with it."

"I—we've been over this," Malfoy said. "You're drunk. You should have a good snogging, but you should be able to remember it."

"I remember snogging Ron," Harry said, wincing.

"Yeah, that's my other point," Malfoy said. "You regret that. I don't want you to regret more."

"I won't regret you," Harry said. "I mean, if you wanted to, then I wouldn't. The whole business with Ron, that was because he didn't want it. If you want to snog, then it's fine, right?"

Malfoy frowned, and Harry thought he might be actively trying to think of a reason not to, which was very good news. "Your first kiss—"

"—was with Cho," Harry said firmly. "I've done that already. Snogging you won't change anything."

Malfoy sighed irritably. "Why are you being so bloody persistent about this? I've told you no. Stop bothering me."

The thing was, though, he wasn't using his leaving voice. "I'm being persistent because, like certain other people I know, I like to get what I want," Harry said. "And I don't get to very often, because unlike certain other people, I'm not an entitled git. So when I think I have a shot at something I want, I go for it. I'm not asking you for a relationship, I'm asking for a snog. A _drunken_ snog. It'll mean nothing. Turns out I'm a horny drunk, and I know you are, because you wanted to pick someone up. So pick me."

"But—" Harry's brain was muddled, but he was still pretty sure Malfoy was stalling. "But you are my friend, and I don't hate you anymore, and I don't want to hurt you, or make things awkward."

"Things aren't going to get more awkward than throwing up on me," Harry said. "Which we've been through. And you're not going to hurt me, I promise."

"I already did," Malfoy said quietly. "At the club. You were nearly in tears when we got back. I don't know if that's because of me or because of the 'leaving voice', as you say, but I don't want to make it worse."

"Then kiss me," Harry said.

"And tomorrow?" Malfoy asked. "When you wake up hung over wondering what the hell you did last night?"

"I'll think that I got a great snog," Harry said easily. Then he sighed. "Y'know, never mind. If I've got to bully you into this, it's bollocks. Sorry for being a prat. What d'you want to talk about instead?"

"No, wait," Malfoy said. "Just a snog? Nothing more?"

"Nothing more," Harry echoed.

"I'm pretty sure I shouldn't be trusting you, because you're drunk. And I've had a few, I suppose," Malfoy said, though he did shift closer.

Harry sighed. "You're overthinking. Or not thinking at all. I just said, I don't want it like this. Forget it."

Then Malfoy's hands were on his face and the delicious tingles were back, and then they were kissing, and that was so much more tingly and it was absolutely delicious, much better than not kissing. Malfoy tasted like tequila and sexiness and Harry ran his fingers through his hair with one hand and set the other on his thigh, probably higher than he meant. He may also have been too involved, since just Malfoy's tequila-stained lips were enough to have him panting and whimpering just the tiniest bit, but he hadn't ever kissed a guy properly, and he was drunk, and Malfoy was really, _really_ hot.

Malfoy pulled away. "There. A snog."

"That's it?" Harry asked. "You were upset about _that_? Not that it wasn't nice, because it was delicious, but really, I'm not that pathetic. I'm not going to fall in love with you because of one tiny kiss."

Malfoy's eyes darkened, and that might have been Harry's point, he wasn't sure. "That's _it_?" he asked. "I'm that mediocre a snogger?"

"No, I said it was delicious," Harry replied smoothly. "But it was short, and there weren't any tongues, and—" Malfoy was back on him, and that was _definitely_ the plan.

His mouth might be tingly but his tongue was entirely electric, lapping at his lips and then exploring his mouth. Harry slid his hand down to his shoulder and pulled him closer, continually making embarrassing noises and not caring at all, especially when Malfoy started making noises as well. Like tingles for the ears. Malfoy's hands were back on his face, then trailing down his neck, brushing over the marks he'd made, then around to Harry's back, gripping him, also trying to get more contact. Harry had lost thought entirely and slid his hand further up Malfoy's leg, sneaking up much higher than he should. He was tingly and electric and Malfoy made a small whimpering noise at the contact so Harry kept going, and that was tingly, too. Both of them were lost in the kiss and the touching and so when Harry's hand came to rest lightly on Malfoy's bulge, neither of them noticed until Harry pressed down.

Malfoy let out a long, low groan, jerking up. Harry moaned back and massaged him, and they were both groaning, Malfoy thrusting up, and Harry was so tingly and electric and—and he wasn't sure what, but Malfoy was getting bigger and harder beneath his touch and he had a vague idea that he should be stopping or maybe going further and that he might be drunk but he wasn't going to stop, not unless Malfoy made him. And, Harry noticed, Malfoy was absolutely not stopping him. In fact, his breathing was getting heavier and his kissing abilities were lessening and he was tightening his hold on Harry and then he abandoned Harry's lips entirely, leaning his head on his shoulder and panting and moaning and thrusting and Harry was trying to wrap his very addled brain around what was happening and possibly that his hand should be beneath the fabric instead of on top of it, and then it didn't matter anymore. Malfoy's breath hitched, he ground upwards, he bit down on Harry's shoulder, and then he let out another long moan, louder than before, his hips jerking up, and then there was a growing wet spot and he let out a shuddering breath and, slowly, recovered, still leaning his head on Harry.

Harry hadn't realized he stopped breathing until he let out a sharp breath. He took his hand back and maybe it was a little awkward and maybe that was a lot more than he meant to do and absolutely that was below the waist but, on the other hand, Malfoy was really, _really_ hot. So maybe it was okay.

Then Malfoy's mouth was back on his and it was _absolutely_ okay because _fuck_ he was good at kissing. His hands were everywhere, pulling his shirt up, running his hands over his bare skin and now Harry was gasping, letting out breathy moans as Malfoy played with his nipples. Harry was entirely foggy and couldn't do much more than sit there and let Malfoy do the work. Malfoy didn't seem to have a problem with that, and he slid onto Harry, continuing to kiss him, to unbutton his shirt, and shifted around until Harry was settled between his cheeks. Harry groaned, pushing up, and then into Malfoy's hands as his shirt was removed entirely. He was shaking, but still the tingles and the electricity. And the friction, too, the friction was really, really good and slowly taking over everything, even as Malfoy moved down from his lips to his neck, then chest, and yes, that was very good and very tingly, but _Merlin_ that friction, that was too much.

Quite suddenly, much faster than he meant to, Harry came. He grabbed Malfoy's hips, straining up against him, and Malfoy was sighing, and kissing him properly, stifling any noises, which was good because Harry was pretty sure he moaned his name—his _given_ name—but it didn't matter because everything was good and tingly and wonderful.

Malfoy sighed again and slid off him. He reached into his pocket and magicked them clean, then collapsed against Harry, resting his head on his shoulder, grabbing his arm and wrapping it around himself.

Harry let out a deep breath. "That was—"

"Shut up," Malfoy interrupted. "You're drunk. If you remember, and if you want to, we'll talk in the morning."

"Then shove off, so I can lie down."

"I'm already lying down," Malfoy said, which was mostly not true, but he was sort of leaning.

"Well I'm not," Harry grumbled. He shoved Malfoy around and then they were sort of spooning and sort of just squished because the couch really wasn't big enough to hold them both like this.

They were asleep as soon as they were horizontal.


	11. Chapter 11: Admitting the Attraction

**A/N:** You know what's not fun? Staying up for thirty-four hours straight and then sleeping for seventeen hours.

That's the story of why this chapter is going up so late.

Enjoy!

**Chapter Eleven**

_**Admitting the Attraction**_

**17**

Harry woke up to the smell of bacon and the sound of sizzling. He blinked blearily; who, exactly, was in his kitchen cooking breakfast? He cracked his eyes open. Why was he in the sitting room? And still dressed? Last night he had—what had he been doing?

He had gone out for drinks with Malfoy, that was it. And so he must've gotten wasted, and Malfoy had brought him home and left him in the sitting room. Okay, that made sense. That was an acceptable answer. Presumably, then, it was Malfoy in the kitchen cooking breakfast. That made a lot less sense.

Harry stumbled into the kitchen. Yes, Malfoy was making breakfast. His stomach churned at the smell. It was a hell of a hangover to make even bacon smell awful.

"What're you doing here?" Harry muttered, opening his refrigerator and fumbling around.

"You asked me to stay," Malfoy replied neutrally. "So I stayed. And now I'm hungry."

Harry finally found the flask and downed half the potion. It tasted revolting, but his hangover slowly dissipated. "D'you need hangover potion?"

Malfoy laughed quietly. "No, Harry, it takes a lot more than what we had to get me sick."

Harry sat on at his kitchen table. "Harry?" he asked. "We're on a first name basis now?"

There was a slight pause and then Malfoy replied, "Never mind. A slip of the tongue, nothing more."

Harry was almost certain Malfoy sounded something like upset. "I'm sorry," Harry said. "First names are fine. We've certainly been spending enough time together. Draco."

Malfoy slipped the bacon onto two plates and joined Harry at the table. "What do you remember of last night?"

"The Muggle bar," Harry said, thinking hard. "And then—" He flushed. "I think I asked you to teach me how to dance?"

Malfoy smiled slightly. "You did."

Harry groaned. "That must've been hugely embarrassing. Sorry for forcing that on you."

"No, you were rather adorable," Malfoy replied. "A bollocks dancer, but amusingly so."

Harry frowned slightly. "Okay."

"And after that?" Malfoy asked lightly. "Do you remember leaving the club?"

Harry thought very hard. "Yes," he said suddenly. "Yes, we came back here, and—_Merlin._ I made an arse out of myself, didn't I? I begged you to kiss me, didn't I? And then we had more to drink. And after that I don't remember. Fuck, Malfoy, I'm sorry."

A strange look appeared on Malfoy's face. "Don't worry about it," he said, then he smirked. "I am gorgeous. Hardly a day goes by when I'm not begged to do _something_."

Harry flushed. "Well, still. Sorry. So what happened after that?"

Malfoy shrugged. "We got drunk, talked some, and passed out on the couch."

"What did we talk about?" Harry asked. Then he smiled a little. "You owe me, Malfoy. Draco, rather. Twice I had to tell you what happened when you were smashed. It's your turn to fill me in."

Malfoy shifted. "Nothing important," he said. "I tried to convince you to come out. You were eager to experiment, but you insisted you wouldn't fool around without a relationship."

Harry tried to put this together. "Did I say anything to you?" he asked. "I remember asking you to kiss me, and you turning me down. And given what you said—I didn't ask you out, did I?"

"No, nothing of the sort," Malfoy replied.

Harry thought for another minute, then gave up. "All right then. As long as I didn't make too much of an arse of myself."

"You were fine," Malfoy said.

"Okay."

**18**

After breakfast Malfoy went home, and Harry didn't hear from him until Friday. Harry's week had been disastrous, and the way Malfoy contacted him did not help. Monday and Tuesday were awful; he was still trying to set up the MuggleWatch taskforce, and he turned in the list to Kingsley on Monday. As word spread, those he had chosen were extraordinarily cold to him. Several Puking Pastilles were sent, though the Auror office had special charms to reveal any suspicious items, so Harry was saved. Ron, who had been spared the assignment, was very friendly, and helped Harry catch up for the raid that night.

The raid itself was remarkably restorative. Harry felt normal again, even though he wasn't leading the raid. They arrested three wizards and confiscated a variety of Class A Non-Tradable goods. They were up until three in the morning and not allowed to come into work until noon, which played havoc with Harry's already disturbed sleep schedule. He spent the rest of the week readjusting to life as an Auror, which mostly meant doing paperwork, and when he left work on Friday, he finally felt normal again.

He had a quiet evening in, and was in the middle of getting ready for bed when one of his protection alarms went off. His heart jumped, he spit out his toothpaste, grabbed his wand and ran downstairs. It was his Floo charm, which probably meant it was just Ron, forgetting once again to announce himself to the fireplace, but he could never be too careful.

Harry edged the door to his study open and peeked around the corner, wand raised. He let out an exasperated sigh.

"Malfoy, what—"

"T's Firday nigh'," Malfoy said exuberantly. He was leaning heavily on the mantle, apparently unable to stand on his own. "Tard—tardit—_tradishion_ ditackes I get drunk, an'—an'—an' you've got to resclue me."

Harry rubbed his face. He couldn't tuck his wand into his pocket because he was already in his pajamas. "Do you remember the last time this happened?" Harry asked. "You effectively told me you were only getting drunk so you could see me. If you wanted to go out drinking with me, all you had to do was ask."

"No," Malfoy said firmly. "No, 'cause you need t' be taken care of when yer drunk, an' I can juss—juss be silly."

Harry sighed. "You're not silly, Malfoy, you're reeling and slurring and have a tendency to tell me things you regret the next day."

"A'leass I don' make ou' with you an' get you off an' forteg it th' next day."

Harry's job dropped. "Wh—what?"

Malfoy smirked. "Lass weeken', you got drunk an' we made out, and then you—" He frowned. "I don' rebembmer th' word, but jerkin' me off but my pants were on, an' then you pulled me onto your lap an' rutted againss me 'til you came."

Harry gaped at him. "You—I—no, no that didn't happen. I asked you, and you said—"

"I lied," Malfoy interrupted. He tried to sound sly, but couldn't shake the slur. "I lied so you wouln' be too ackward to see me again. An' also 'cause I didn' wan' your firs' gay 'xpeerinence to be a drunken mikstake."

Harry was having a lot of trouble processing this. He couldn't decide when Malfoy was lying; if it had been that morning, or right now. He thought Sober Malfoy might actually be nice enough to lie about something like that, and Drunk Malfoy lonely enough to let it happen in the first place. As for right now—well, he couldn't see why this version of Drunk Malfoy would lie to him.

But… but had Harry really done that? And not remembered? He was a lot more upset about forgetting than the acts themselves, and a small voice in the back of his head told him that was backwards, but he couldn't believe he let himself go that far when he wouldn't remember it.

"Didn't you promise to keep me from doing anything below the waist?" Harry asked eventually.

"I lied," Malfoy echoed. "I didn' _meeean_ t' lie, I juss' got wrapped up in your lips an' your han's an'—an' you tass'd really good."

"But…"

"Plus your shir' was off, an' its hard t' say no when you're not wearin' a shir'," Malfoy added. "Dressed you in th' mornin', so you wouln' freak ou'."

"I…"

Malfoy's eyes grew large and watery. "D'you gregret me?" he asked. "I knew y' wouln' wan' me. Thass why I trie' t' get y' t' wait. So y' wouln' greterg me."

"I, um, don't regret you," Harry stammered, still trying to make sense of this. "I wish I remembered it, but I don't mind it was you, just that I don't remember it."

Malfoy's eyes grew even wider. "Youuu—you thin' we shoul' have sex?"

Harry stared at him. "What? No, I don't—how did you—?" He shook himself. "Okay, never mind. Malfoy, you're drunk. I assume you want to stay here instead of going back to the Manor?"

Malfoy nodded, suddenly looking pathetically sad. "T's loniley there."

"Yeah, I know," Harry said. "Come on, then. I'll take you up to the guest room."

Malfoy attempted to step forward, but his legs started to give out and he had to grab onto the mantle again. "Help?"

Harry sighed again. "Yeah, of course." He went over to Malfoy, grabbed his arm and apparated them upstairs; navigating the staircase while Malfoy was this drunk seemed far too dangerous.

"Whoo," Malfoy breathed as they landed. He stumbled against Harry, who was forced to wrap an arm around his waist to keep him standing. "Parrapation's diffituclt."

"I know, that's why I did it for you," Harry said, gently pushing Malfoy onto the bed.

Malfoy smiled sunnily at him. "You're so nissshe."

"Okay," Harry replied.

Malfoy arranged himself against the headboard so he was propped up. "Got any whishkey?"

"Not for you," Harry said. "You need to sober up. Have a glass of water." He conjured one, and handed it to Malfoy. "Drink this."

Malfoy knocked it out of his hand. The glass shattered on the floor, spilling water everywhere. Harry sighed, and magicked it away. "No," Malfoy said. "I wan' Fiery Whishkery."

"You're drunk enough," Harry said firmly.

"Thass wha' you said," Malfoy said. "An'—wait, no, thass what I said 'bou' you. An' then I…" His face fell. "I took away yer whiskrey."

Harry smiled slightly. "Well, there you go."

Malfoy assessed Harry with red, watery eyes. "Yer in yer pagajmas."

"I was going to bed," Harry replied.

Malfoy looked like he was going to cry again. "I didn' mean t' keep y' up," he said, overly apologetic. "I's sorry. G'back t' bed."

"No, it's fine," Harry said. "I know you don't want to be alone. I'll stay until you pass out. You need someone to hold your hair back if you start throwing up, remember?"

Malfoy sighed. "Yeah, I 'mebmer. Bloo'y 'Storia, never takin' care o' me." He looked up at Harry, eyes wide again. "_Y'_ take care o' me." Then he went back to miserable. "Bu' only 'cause o' MullegTwatch."

"MuggleWatch is over, Malfoy," Harry said. He sat on the end of the bed, and watched as Malfoy swayed from the movement. "I'm here because—well, actually, because you Flooed into my house, but I'm staying with you because I care about you."

"Y' juss' wan' t' get m' inno bed," Malfoy accused. "Thass why y' were all o'er me lass' time."

Harry flushed. "No, I'm just here as a friend."

"Thass even worss," Malfoy said mournfully. "I wan' y', and y' couln' care less."

Harry was once more shocked into silence. "I—you—?"

Malfoy nodded miserably. "'Course. Why e'sse woul' I have stalkered y' on MullegTwatch? An' takin' y' out dancin'? I was—we, I mean, y'assed me t' dance—like _dance_ dance w'you, an' we were neckin', sor' of, and grindnin'. 'Sides, why woul' I have snoddeg y' if I didn' wan' you? I don' juss come in my pan's fer juss anyone, y'know. T's patethic."

Harry was staring blankly at Malfoy. He was completely lost in this conversation. He had no idea what was going on; what had happened, what Malfoy _wanted_ to happen, how he should respond to any of this.

"Malfoy, you're drunk," Harry said gently. "You're saying things you don't mean. Try to go to sleep, okay?"

"Nooo," Malfoy whined. "Nooo, I wanna stay up 'n talk w'y'."

"Then talk about something else," Harry prodded. "Not work and not me."

Malfoy frowned. "Then—then wha' shoul' I say?"

"Whatever you want."

Malfoy's frown deepened. "I wan' you t' come up here," he said. "Neckst t' me."

Harry hesitated. "I'm not sure if that's a good idea."

"I'ss a _birillian' _idea," Malfoy insisted. "I'm loniley, 'mebmer? I need a firened."

Harry took another moment to think, and then moved next to Malfoy. He was sober, he hadn't had a drop to drink, and he was more than capable of stopping anything Malfoy might try. "Okay," Harry said. "I'm here."

Malfoy leaned against him, wrapping an arm around his chest and draping a leg over his. "I hate bein' loniley," he sighed. "Spen' th' whole week alone a' th' Manor. T's so _lonileeee._"

Not having much of a choice in the matter, Harry wrapped an arm around Malfoy's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. "You're still happier now than you were with Astoria, right?"

"Yes," Malfoy replied. "Yes, asoblutely. Still loniley though." He sighed once again. "I need a boyfiern'."

Harry's stomach flipped. "I thought you wanted casual sex?"

Malfoy snuggled closer, and suddenly Harry realized just how bad a decision this had been. "I was wron'," Malfoy said. "I had cashul sex. Sunnay an' Mondee an' Tuessey. Then I rebemebed I had been havin' sex fer _years_ while I was marred t' 'Storia, an' th' whole poin' of bein' diroceved is tha' I can have a real retailshonip."

Harry closed his eyes. He was stuck on the idea of Malfoy getting laid that much, and why it would bother him. Then he moved on to what Malfoy had said last weekend, that he didn't want a real relationship, and how it was probably just that Drunk Malfoy was lonely, and it didn't mean anything. "You're just drunk," Harry said. "Once you're sober again—"

"No," Malfoy interrupted. "I was shober when I reaziled I needed somethin' real. Tuessey mornin', wakin' up in a shtrange room neckst t' a gougerious mugleg. I shoul've bee' happy, bu' I was juss' deresheped." He yawned. "An' then I reazilized tha' all three loreves—Sunney, Monney an Tuessey, they all looked like y', an' I need a retailonship, and so d'you, an' so I tried to tell you, an' I almoss' owl'd y' maybe eighty thirty billions of times, bu' I coul'n't, an' so I deshided t' get drunk an' show up here, an'—an' then—" He frowned. "An' now I'm here."

Harry's stomach wouldn't stop flipping and he couldn't look away from Malfoy and he couldn't think, and then Malfoy threw up on him. Harry sighed deeply, and magicked it away. "Come on, let's get you to the bathroom."

"Suppose," Malfoy said despondently. He followed Harry to the bathroom, and Harry was extraordinarily happy that he made it to the toilet before throwing up again. Harry had a much harder time staying with him than he had before; Malfoy's hair felt silkier than usual, and the shirt he was wearing must have been thinner than usual because Harry could feel the heat coming off him and that heat was oddly—oddly something, and so Harry kept his eyes closed and tried not to think. He held Malfoy's hair and stroked his back and flushed the toilet when Malfoy forgot to and kept his mind carefully blank.

After what seemed like ages he finally stopped. He leaned back, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, eyes half closed and body shaking slightly.

Harry didn't find it attractive at all.

"Bed?" Malfoy croaked. "I don' thin' I can get there by m'self."

"Of course," Harry said, helping him to his feet.

"Proshim me y'll stay with me," Malfoy sighed, shuffling to the bed.

"I can't spend the night with you, no," Harry said, lying Malfoy on the bed.

Malfoy burst into a string of whimpers. "No, 'm loniley, I don' wanna be 'lone, pleashe, Harry, shtay w' me."

Harry took off Malfoy's shoes and wrestled the blankets out from underneath him, then covered him. "If you remember this in the morning—" Harry cut himself off. Malfoy had said that to him last weekend when he had started to talk about—about—he shook his head. He couldn't remember.

"Nooo, I shtay'd with y' lass time, when y'were drunk, 't's m' turn. Pleashe."

Harry had a brief, very difficult internal battle with himself. "Okay," he sighed. "I'll stay, but—"

Malfoy grabbed his hand and squeezed tightly. "Than' y'. Need y'."

Harry winced. This was such a bad idea. Even knowing that, he crawled under the blankets. "This is just sleeping," he said firmly. "Nothing else, okay?"

"Mhm," Malfoy said. He wrapped an arm around Harry, pulling him so they were completely pressed together. "Shleep well."

Harry closed his eyes so he didn't have to see those gorgeous slate eyes. Had he managed to forget about them since last weekend? That seemed ridiculous. "You, too."


	12. Chapter 12: Admitting the Admission

**A/N:** Hey look, it's a chapter! Yay! Now time for naps.

**Chapter Twelve**

_**Admitting the Admission**_

**19**

Harry thought it might be weird that waking up spooning with Malfoy was one of the best mornings he'd ever had. It was just that he had never woken up with someone in his bed before, with someone warm and sleeping curled up against him, with his arm and leg draped around someone. Of course it was awkward that it was Malfoy, and it meant nothing since his presence had been requested while drunk, but Harry found he could let that second fact slip from his mind quite easily and just focus on Malfoy and warm and _good_.

Focusing on Malfoy also wasn't weird.

Neither was the realization that Harry was pretty sure it was Malfoy who made spooning so good in the first place.

Okay, so, yes, he had been considering this idea since the first time he had found Malfoy sprawled in an alley. Obviously it had intensified when they went out to the club, even if all he remembered was the dancing and not the snogging or the—well, the other part. And how was Harry supposed to _not_ be affected when Malfoy admitted he wanted him? He had been drunk and so Harry would need a lot of clarification that he was absolutely not prepared to ask for, but it had been said.

So, really, it was fine that holding Malfoy, spooning with him, being completely pressed against his lithe warmth was nice. Perhaps the degree to which it was nice was a bit much. But the rest of it, that was fine.

Malfoy smelled good. He was musky and vanilla with a touch of Firewhiskey still overlaying him. Harry found that much of the scent was concentrated on Malfoy's neck, so against all better judgment and without thinking in the slightest, Harry nuzzled his neck and, completely accidentally, brushed his lips against his skin. His skin was really, _really_ soft and smelled even better this close and Malfoy hummed quietly, and that was even better.

With that, Harry decided it was no longer reasonable to deny he had feelings for the man in his bed.

That was also sort of weird.

Harry found it would be very easy to get worried. He could worry that his actions last weekend were just because he was drunk and didn't actually want sexual contact with Malfoy. He could worry that Malfoy's admission last night was only because _he_ was drunk. He could worry that he was misinterpreting those words and Malfoy only wanted his friendship.

The thing, though, was that he really wanted that contact again. Snuggling like this was brilliant, but snogging? Touching him? Coming for him? That was—was something he had to stop thinking about right now if he didn't want Malfoy to know exactly what he was thinking about and how much he wanted it. Never mind that Malfoy had been relatively sober and hadn't pushed him away.

The other thing was that even if Malfoy's admission was only because he was drunk, that didn't negate it, not exactly. He had said he realized when he was sober, and Harry trusted that. The last time Malfoy had drunkenly confessed to sober decisions he had been completely honest. There wasn't any reason not to believe him this time.

The last thing was that worrying about Malfoy's intentions was just blatantly stupid. He had said he was attracted to Harry. One wasn't attracted to just friends. Nor did one want relationships with such friends. They wanted friendship. Even if he had misused the words because he was drunk, Malfoy said he had been sleeping with guys who looked like Harry. That he had realized he was attracted to him after such an encounter. There was no way that could be misconstrued as wanting only friendship.

Still, though. It was very easy to worry.

It was much harder to decide what to do next. Harry wanted desperately to stay where he was, to revel in holding Malfoy in his arms. He didn't know if he'd get this chance again, and he didn't want to waste it. On the other hand, last weekend when Malfoy had woken up before him, he had left to make breakfast. He hadn't stayed to do any reveling. There were a whole host of reasons to worry about that, but Harry focused just on the act itself. Malfoy hadn't stayed, he had gotten up and made breakfast.

Harry sighed. He needed to get up. He started to pull away, to untangle himself from Malfoy, but as soon as he moved his arm Malfoy made a disgruntled whimpering noise, and when Harry backed up Malfoy cuddled back against him. Harry's stomach clenched, he reasoned that he wasn't being given a choice in the matter, and so he went back to holding Malfoy, who made that same happy humming noise as earlier.

"Are you awake?" Harry whispered. If he was, that would be wonderful and relatively irrevocable evidence. If he wasn't, then it meant nothing. Really, though, even if he was awake it wouldn't mean anything, because Drunk Malfoy was desperate for any sort of contact. Then again, it was the next morning, so presumably Drunk Malfoy had been replaced with Sober Malfoy and possibly Hung-Over Malfoy, in which case he was sure to be irritable and difficult. If he was hung-over and still wanted to be held, that was almost certainly good news. Unless he felt so bad he just wanted comfort.

Malfoy mumbled something unintelligible that could just be sleep noises or could be I'm-waking-up-and-aware-of-my-surroundings noises. Harry nuzzled his neck again, and Malfoy sighed. "Yes," he muttered, voice blurred with sleep. "'M awake. Got anymore of that hangover potion?"

Yes, that was definitely the first thing Malfoy would say when waking up in this position. Which meant—_Oh, for Merlin's sake, stop it_, Harry thought angrily. He reached for his wand and summoned the flask. Malfoy caught it deftly as it flew over and drank deeply. He sighed again and let the flask clatter to the floor.

"Fuck, that's better," he said.

Was Harry supposed to say something now? Probably. "Er, that's good."

"Mm."

This was—intelligent. "So…"

Malfoy stiffened in his arms. "Oh Merlin," he groaned. "I said something last night, didn't I? I know that tone of voice. That was how my father sounded when I told him I was gay. Just come out with it, tell me now."

Harry considered his options. Malfoy had lied to him about their snogging session; should he return the favor? How much was he supposed to say? Also, why was Malfoy still in his arms? "Did—" Harry's voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "Did you, er, decide something during the week?"

Malfoy let out a sharp breath. "I decide lots of things," he said carefully. "My job demands I make decisions all the time."

Harry worried his lower lip. "Tuesday morning?" he asked. "About, um, what you want, regarding relationships?"

Malfoy was still very, very tense. "Yes," he replied. "It occurred to me I may be happier in a relationship than sleeping around."

"Right," Harry muttered. "And, um, nothing else?"

Malfoy's eyes slipped closed. "Fuck, Potter, stop dancing around it. I told you I wanted to be with you, didn't I?"

Harry flushed, leaning his head against Malfoy's shoulder, unable to look at him. "Not in so many words."

"We're still dressed," Malfoy observed. "Was there a repeat performance of last week, or did we just sleep?"

"Slept," Harry mumbled.

Malfoy relaxed, just a little. "Okay. That's—that's good."

It was? Why would it be good? Because he didn't want Harry, or because he wanted to remember anything they did? "You said you wanted to tell me and almost owled me—er—eighty thirty billions of times," he rushed out before he could help himself. "And that the guys you slept with this week looked like me. And the only way you could say anything was to get smashed and come over."

Malfoy buried his face in his hands. "I know I'm a mouthy drunk but fuck, that wasn't—I didn't mean to say any of that. I'm a bloody coward and I embarrassed myself beyond belief."

"At least you can keep your hands to yourself when you drink," Harry said, trying to lighten the mood, trying to get something _concrete_ out of Malfoy. "That was another thing you said; you told me what happened last weekend, what I did to you."

"You didn't do anything _to_ me, Potter," Malfoy said, words muffled by his hands. "That was entirely mutual. I should have stopped you, I know you said nothing below the waist, but, well, that ship has sailed. This, though, me going off on you—"

"It's okay," Harry interrupted. "You were drunk. We can forget it ever happened, or assume you didn't mean any of it." His stomach twisted angrily at this, but he was going to give Malfoy an out, if he wanted it. It surprised him how much he wanted everything to be true, how apparently desperate he already was, but everything about this was weird, so he might as well just go with it.

"Is that what you want?" Malfoy asked. "To forget?"

And now it was turned around on Harry, and he wasn't a fan of that, not in the slightest. "They were your words," he said uncomfortably. "I think whatever you meant or didn't mean or let slip because you were drunk, that's up to you."

It took Malfoy a long while to respond. "Why am I in bed with you?"

"You were 'loniley'," Harry replied, feeling a bit delirious and needing to bite back laughter at what really wasn't a very funny word at all.

Malfoy relaxed further. "Okay," he repeated. "All right." He started to get up but Harry held him back, reversing their roles. Malfoy settled down easily enough, though any relaxation was gone. "What do you want, Potter?" he sighed. "Do you really feel the need to humiliate me further?"

"I'm not going to humiliate you," Harry said, surprised. "I couldn't even if I wanted to. If I tried to say something, all you'd have to do is remind me I came from rutting against you, and that'd be the end of that."

Malfoy smiled slightly. "I suppose."

"I just—I want to know if you meant it," Harry stammered. "About wanting a relationship. With me."

Malfoy's eyebrows flew up. "Is it not obvious?" he asked. "Like I said, I'm a mouthy drunk. I may say things I meant to keep to myself, but I don't lie. I haven't the capacity after consuming enough alcohol."

Harry found he was having trouble with his heart beating, and forcing air in and out of uncooperative lungs. "So you do."

Malfoy sighed irritably. "Fuck, Potter, do you need me to formally declare myself, to get down on my knees and beg? Fine. Potter, I—wait, no. Harry. _Harry_, I hereby announce my desire to court you, a series of actions meant to render me your inamorato." He flinched, but still added, "Please."

"I haven't any idea what you just said," Harry said. "But yes."

Malfoy whirled around, managing to stay beneath Harry's arm and leg as he turned to face him. "Yes?" he repeated. He was staring at Harry as though he had grown a second head, and Harry thought that wasn't good at all.

"I mean, if you want," he said, stammering again. "I thought—well, I don't know what that last word meant, but I sort of assumed, and, well—"

Malfoy silenced him with a kiss. Briefly grazing his lips against Harry's, and Harry couldn't quite fathom how soft and wonderful they were and how, exactly, Malfoy's eyes had turned to stars. Slightly less romantic he noted how Malfoy tasted of fermented Firewhiskey and still faintly of vomit, but he wouldn't have traded it for anything in the world, and he let out a small whimper when Malfoy pulled away.

"I'm sorry," Malfoy said quietly, reaching up and brushing his hand against Harry's cheek. "You deserve better than a drunken declaration I don't even remember. I had been planning on something more subtle than bursting into your home in the middle of the night and—and whatever I did."

Harry took Malfoy's hand in his and guided it back to cup his cheek. "You told me that this was exactly your plan," he said with a bit of a smile. "Besides, whatever you just asked me, that was wonderfully romantic."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Inamorato, Harry. It means suitor, or beau."

"Quit it with the fancy words," Harry replied, smile widening. "You asked me to be your boyfriend."

Malfoy scowled. "_No_. I asked to take you on a series of dates until you decided you _wanted_ me to be your boyfriend."

"Well, there was the first time I found you in an alley," Harry said. "And the second time, which you planned. Then going out to the club together, and the snogging that followed. And finally you showing up last night telling me you wanted me. That's four almost dates, if you stretch the definition. I think I've got enough to go on. I've stayed with you as you've thrown up, I've listened to your drunken ramblings, I've been held in your arms as we danced. Maybe not a traditional—what did you say, courtship?—but you and I have never had anything approaching normal. I said yes, and I'm saying yes again. I'm your inamorato, you pompous prat."

Malfoy's scowled deepened. "Shove off. At least let me take you on one proper date before you proclaim yourself mine."

"If you say so," Harry replied, eyes sparkling. He wondered if Malfoy had any idea how ridiculous he was, and how adorable that made him. Almost certainly not. "I'm still going to consider you mine, though, and I'll be very upset if you continue to sleep around."

Malfoy's frown smoothed out immediately, replaced with his patented I'm-talking-to-an-idiot look. "No, of course not," he said. "One does not sleep around when one is wooing."

Harry's smile turned into a full-fledged grin. "I like that," he said. "I've never been wooed before."

Finally Malfoy smiled back, albeit hesitantly. "Then I am pleased to be the first, to show you how it's done properly."

Harry's hand returned to Malfoy's waist, fingers sliding gently over his button-down shirt, no doubt a remnant from work. "I suppose anything physical has to wait, then," he said mischievously.

Malfoy smacked his hand away. "Of course, don't be silly."

"One more kiss, then? Before you officially begin the wooing process?" Harry asked, moving to stroke Malfoy's face.

His eyes closed and he sighed. "One kiss," he said, breathily and firmly at the same time. "One kiss and nothing more. I let you seduce me once already, I won't have it again."

Harry didn't bother answering with words. Instead he leaned forward, capturing Malfoy's lips with his, once again tasting the Firewhiskey and vomit, once again being overwhelmed by the sparks shooting through him, the jolts of electricity that rippled down his spine. He tried to deepen the kiss, running his tongue along Malfoy's lips—which really were kind of gross, though he was willing to sacrifice taste for the blooming in his heart and stomach and groin—but he was pushed away.

"One kiss," Malfoy repeated steadfastly. "Now I've really got to shower and brush my teeth. Why you'd want to kiss me at all while I'm in this state I haven't the slightest idea; _I_ don't even want to taste it, and it's my mouth."

Harry chuckled as Malfoy got out of bed and went into the bathroom. He had the door mostly closed before he turned around, and Harry was once again struck by his eyes. He'd never have thought grey could be so beautiful. "Harry, would you consent to a date next Friday evening?"

Harry eyed him. "And what am I supposed to do until then?" he challenged. "Especially with you naked and dripping wet in my shower?"

Malfoy flushed, and it looked beautiful on his pale skin. "I imagine you'll find ways of entertaining yourself," he replied smoothly. "Now leave; it isn't proper for you to be in my bed, in my room, especially while I shower."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "_Your_ bed? _Your_ room?"

Malfoy's flush darkened. "I—yours—but while I take partial residence in your home, I require my own quarters."

Harry laughed. "Malfoy, really—"

"Draco," he interrupted. "Didn't we go over this last week? We are certainly on a first name basis, unless you insist on being even more old-fashioned than I and would prefer to call me Mr. Malfoy until our courtship has resolved."

Harry had to bite back more laughter. "Draco, take your damned shower. I'll fix us breakfast."

"There's no need to swear," Malfoy—wait, no, Draco—said haughtily. "Now, really, leave. I'll meet you downstairs." He closed the door and Harry took a moment to revel—revel for real this time, revel without needing to doubt—before leaving to get dressed and make breakfast. Eggs, he thought. Eggs and pancakes.


	13. Chapter 13: Commandeering the Convers

**A/N:** You guys are the best. I've been going through a really hard time lately and all the reviews you left for the last chapter just about made my life. Thank you so much for reading and commenting and favoriting and following; I couldn't ask for a better readership.

Jut a small heads up for stories to be published after this one: I have three in reserve waiting to go, and I haven't decided on an order yet, but there's a Drarry, a Snarry and a Snaco. I'm not sure if the Drarry one is actually any good or not, but I'm quite pleased with the other two. Rest assured, they'll all wind up here eventually :)

Enjoy!

**Chapter Thirteen**

_**Commandeering the Conversation**_

**20**

Harry wasn't sure what he expected. That was probably good, as nothing happened. Draco came downstairs after his shower and they had a pleasant, unremarkable breakfast. When they finished eating, Draco said he had to leave for work and Flooed to the Manor so he could change before heading into work. There was no talk of courtship or inamoratos or plans for their date of Friday. Idle chitchat, and then Draco left.

Harry stood in his office by the fireplace staring into the flames. He hadn't expected nothing at all to happen. He didn't know what he had expected, but it wasn't nothing. And now he felt…cheated, like he had missed something very big, and that it couldn't have been nothing because courtship wasn't nothing. Probably. He hadn't ever been courted, he wouldn't actually know. But maybe a kiss on the cheek, or a rose, or—or something less pathetic, maybe, because that was really pathetic.

He shook himself. Staring at his fireplace wasn't going to accomplish anything. He wondered if he was allowed to tell people about this—he really needed a word other than courtship, which sounded so pretentious—this thing, because he'd very much like to see Ron and Hermione, and he would _very_ much like to talk to them about what was going on. Maybe they'd have a better idea than he did, given that they had been together for the past four years. They hadn't had an official courtship, no, just years of obliviousness followed by a full-on relationship, but really, who _did_ get courted these days?

Harry felt very foolish, but he tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace and stuck his head in, shouting "Malfoy Manor!" He blinked, trying to get soot out of his eyes. He appeared to be in a library of sorts. Draco's back was just visible walking out the door, and Harry said, quite intelligently, "Oi, Draco!"

Draco jerked slightly, and turned around. He smirked. "Couldn't manage five minutes without seeing me?"

Harry glared at him. "You're still a prat. But no, I had a question for you."

Draco raised one delicate eyebrow, and he looked beautiful, even with the smirk and the look that implied Harry was entirely daft, and still while wearing yesterday's wrinkled clothes. "Yes?"

Harry flushed, but he was pretty sure the red from the fire masked it. Draco had clearly been joking, but was it meant to be mean and derisive, or some sort of bizarre in-joke Harry didn't understand? And Harry himself had just called him a prat. Following that, how was he supposed to ask about their whatever it was?

Draco's expression softened into a real smile. "Go on, Harry. What would you like to know?"

"I—er, um, am I allowed to—" That sounded off. "Are we—I mean, we aren't, er, inamoratos or whatever, but this time, before we are—if we get there, I mean, since you wouldn't accept my yes—" Harry had to take a deep breath. "Is this just between us?"

That half-smile, half-smirk, made his knees weak, which was awkward seeing as how he was kneeling in front of his fireplace. "A secret courtship? How very Shakespearian. I would rather not sneak around, but if you would like, I won't say no."

"No," Harry said immediately. "No, I don't want to hide, or anything."

Draco smiled fully, and Harry slipped slightly, jarring his head on a log and sending off a shower of sparks. "Very well, then. Public it is."

"Right," Harry said, also smiling. "I'll just go, then."

"Should I stay in the library?" Draco asked, that obnoxious smirk returning. "Will you be returning every few minutes?"

Harry flushed again. "Sod off," he said. "I'll see you later. Not in-a-few-minutes later, actual later."

Draco continued to smirk. "Whatever you say, Harry."

Harry jerked himself out of the fireplace and angrily shook soot out of his hair and wiped it off his face and glasses. This was going to be an odd sort of courtship if they were going to continue to insult each other. Then again, Harry wasn't sure it could go any other way. He took another handful of Floo powder, stepped entirely into the fireplace, and proclaimed, "Ron and Hermione's flat!"

He stepped out into an empty living room.

"Ron?" he called, wandering into the kitchen. "'Mione?"

There was a loud squawk from the bedroom, and the door suddenly slammed shut.

"Go away!" Ron yelled.

"For the hundredth time, would you owl first?" Hermione added, followed by a noise Harry really wished he hadn't heard.

"I've got to talk to you," Harry said, looking at the ceiling and shuffling his feet. "I'll just wait in the living room."

A string of curses from Ron was cut off by _Muffliato_, and Harry was left in an awkward silence. He returned to the living room, picked a book at random off the many, many shelves and collapsed onto his favorite chair. He found himself reading about wizard trade relations between North America and England during and after the Revolutionary War with a focus on dragon eggs. It was not a brilliant read.

Ron and Hermione emerged quite a while later, looking entirely presentable except for the embarrassed flush on Ron's face and Hermione's wet hair, designating a shower. A shower in the late morning for a reason nobody chose to comment on.

"So what's this burning need for conversation?" Ron asked, sitting on the couch, resting a hand on Hermione's leg as she joined him.

"You better have a good excuse," Hermione reprimanded. "We've had so many conversations about owling, Harry, it's really rude that you refuse to respect our privacy. Even just a Floo call would be an improvement."

"I'm sorry," Harry said. "Draco Malfoy is courting me and taking me out on a date Friday night and wants to be my inamorato, a word I didn't even know until today, and last night drunkenly confessed that he fancies me and wants to be with me; the other bit, the courting bit, that spawned from me telling him what he did while he was drunk—it's kind of tradition between us, the morning after explanation—and then me asking for a clarification, and it's public, we're not hiding it, so I guess…I'm…" Harry was running out of steam, and Ron and Hermione's incredulous expressions weren't helping. "Help?"

His friends continued to gape at him.

"Um," Ron started.

"That's—something," Hermione tried.

"I knew the bit about the piano was a crock," Ron added.

"Perhaps you should start from the beginning," Hermione decided.

"Well, um, the beginning, that's con—private," Harry corrected. Confidential, that was too obvious. Or it could be; his brain was still muddled and he wasn't sure if confidential automatically meant MuggleWatch. Probably. "I guess, well, we started drinking together," he said carefully, only half a lie. "And that led to, y'know, tongues being loosened, and—"

"_Tongues_?" Ron interrupted. "I heard that tone of voice, Harry. What about tongues?"

"Bloody Auror," Harry muttered under his breath. In his normal voice he said, "I have no memory of this, but apparently we snogged. Anyway—"

"And you didn't tell us?" Hermione interrupted, looking very hurt.

"Well I didn't know until last night," Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Like I said, I didn't remember it, and Draco didn't—"

"Draco?" Ron interrupted once again. "He's _Draco_ now?"

"Stop interrupting," Harry snapped. "I didn't remember it and Draco didn't tell me the next morning and I only found out last night when he was drunk and said something about it. Anyway, so we had drinks, and had a quick dinner last weekend, and went out to a club, and—shut your mouth, Ron, I'm serious, I won't tell you if you keep talking over me." Ron closed his mouth, tightening his grip on Hermione's leg and biting his cheek to prevent himself from talking. "So, yes, that happened, and last night he showed up at Grimmauld Place, drunk, and he said things, and this morning I told him what he said, and he was being very obtuse about it, and then he finally gave up and made a formal proclamation of sorts, and now I'm here."

Ron opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. "Can I talk now?"

"I don't imagine I can stop you," Harry said, resigned to a barrage of questions.

"First off, you went to a club together?" Ron asked. "Er, no, first dinner. Tell me about dinner."

Harry thought back. "That was that day I didn't sleep at all and I was delirious, and we went to a small café in Lily Alley. We talked about his—" He had to cut himself off before he said divorce. That still wasn't public knowledge, and he wasn't about to go around spreading secrets. "We talked. The piano came up then, Ron, just in the course of conversation. I brought him over to Grimmauld Place and showed it to him. Then I fell asleep in the basement and he left." Harry decided not to include the part where Draco carried him upstairs, took off his shoes, and left him a note. That exactly wasn't relevant.

"How did you decide to make plans?" Ron asked, officially turning into an Auror. "How'd that happen?"

Harry tried to figure out a way of telling the story without bringing up MuggleWatch. He couldn't think of one. "It just did," he replied lamely. "I don't know. Things happen."

"Right," Ron said. "Okay, fine. That's a secret. Strange that you'd tell us about the snogging and the dating but not a dinner with a friend, but fine. The club?"

"I was at Malfoy Manor," Harry said firmly, relieved at a question he could answer. "We moved the piano, and I had to sign a bunch of paperwork—" He stopped suddenly. Shit. No divorce talk. "—because the Malfoys keep impeccable records of everything that comes and goes out of the Manor. Because of all the raids, y'know. It makes things easier, I guess. It got late, so we had dinner, and Draco wanted to go out and invited me, and I'd never been to a gay club before, and I thought it might be interesting."

"Right," Ron repeated. Hermione remained silent throughout the questioning, leaving it to her Auror. Hermione's own personal inquisitional squad. That wasn't fair. "Did you drink at the club? Because we all know what happens when you drink."

Harry flushed. "Yes. I told you. Snogging. I don't remember it, don't ask for details."

Ron thought for a minute. "He apparated to Grimmauld Place, you said? Drunk? So he's in on the Fidelius Charm."

"No, he Flooed in," Harry replied, leaving out the part that Draco was, in fact, in on the Fidelius Charm. It wasn't lying, it was just choosing not to include certain information. "Set off all the alarms, too. I was getting ready for bed and nearly had a heart attack."

"Then he said things."

Harry groaned. "Ron, really, this isn't a Ministry inquest. I'm here asking for help because I haven't dated since Ginny, and that was four years ago and ended up a train wreck."

"We'll help after we hear the story," Hermione said, finally speaking up. "We can hardly advise you if we don't know what's happened."

Harry closed his eyes for half a moment. "All right, fine. Yes, he said things. He was drunk. He tends to talk a lot when he's drunk. He said he wanted to stop sleeping around and have a real relationship, and that he wanted it to be with me." He debated whether to add in the bit about Draco's conquests looking like him, and decided to leave it. "Then he spent a long time being sick."

Ron considered. "Fine," he said yet again. "You said he was there this morning? He spent the night?"

"He was too drunk to go home," Harry said. "Too drunk and too sick." _And thought the Manor was too lonely_, he added silently. "He stayed in the guest room." It wasn't relevant that he also slept in the guest room.

"And this morning you had a talk?" Ron asked. "About his intentions?"

"You have a really annoying habit of splitting up one question into two sentences," Harry said irritably. "But yes, we had a talk. He didn't ask me out, he asked for permission to—to court me," he said, blushing. "I said yes, and he asked me out for dinner on Friday, and I said yes again. Then we had breakfast and he left."

Ron considered some more. So did Hermione.

"It seems pretty clear," Hermione said eventually. "I'm not sure what you need help with."

Harry stared at her. "I've never dated a man before," he said. "I haven't done anything at all in four years—that I remember, and that wasn't you, Ron, sorry again about that, please stop giving me that look. I have no idea what to do."

"Well, he said he's courting you," Hermione reasoned. "I imagine he'll do all the work."

"Yeah but…" Harry trailed off.

"Could you explain to me again how this happened?" Ron asked.

Harry sighed. "No. You've questioned me enough, you figure it out."

"Do you like him, then?" Hermione asked. "Since you said yes?"

Harry had to work very hard from blushing again. "I dunno, I suppose," he said, lying completely. "He specifically said we're not—Merlin, I don't remember that word—"

"Inamoratos," Hermione supplied.

"Yeah, that. He said we're not that. He wants to 'woo me properly', I think he said."

Hermione had to stifle a laugh. "That's very romantic. Very traditional."

"So my point is, I don't need to know right now," Harry said. "The whole point of wooing, or courtship, or whatever, is that I'm not supposed to know. He's got to, um, persuade me?" He had no idea what word he was looking for. "Prove himself? I don't know, whatever chivalrous people did a few hundred years ago."

Hermione nodded absently, but Ron's face was still scrunched in concentration.

"You have to like him at least a little bit," Ron said. "To have gone out to dinner and drinks and a club, and to have said yes to this—this whatever." Harry shrugged noncommittally. "I still want to hear about dinner."

Hermione elbowed him. "If Harry says it's none of our business, we're just going to have to wait for him to change his mind," she said. "He'll never come out with it if you keep bothering him."

"It's not about mind-changing," Harry said irritably. "I promised I wouldn't say anything. I don't break promises."

Hermione's eyes widened suddenly, and Harry cursed himself. She was far too clever for her own good. "Oh," she said softly. "Oh, okay."

Ron looked at her, furious. "Why do you always figure things out before me? I'm _trained_ to figure things out."

Hermione shook her head. "It's not like that. Let it go, Ron."

He was a bright, angry red. Then he whipped back to Harry. "He's married," Ron said bluntly. "What the hell are you doing?"

Harry bit his lip. "Er, well. He's not anymore. I'd think that would be obvious, even for someone as daft as you." That wasn't exactly telling them about Draco's divorce, not in so many words.

Harry was honestly surprised there wasn't steam coming from Ron's ears. "I don't understand!" he cried. "I'm missing something, something that's right in front of me, and I don't know what it is and I hate it. It's like hunting for Horcruxes all over again." Harry looked down, stomach clenching. He glanced at Hermione, who had pulled away from Ron, just the tiniest bit. Ron sighed. "I'm sorry, that wasn't fair. But really, Harry, you're my best mate. Shouldn't I be the first to know about this sort of thing?"

"You are," Harry said reassuringly. "I didn't say anything before this morning because there wasn't anything to say. As soon as there was some sort of clarity I came over. I didn't even bother to owl ahead, 'Mione."

"Which you still should have done," she shot back.

"Yeah but…" Ron trailed off. Then he sighed. "Okay. Where're you going for dinner Friday?"

"No clue," Harry replied. "I don't know when or where or anything. Just dinner."

"And a date," Ron added. "I mean a date-date, not the calendar-date."

"Yeah, that too," Harry said, a sudden wave of butterflies cascading through him. "And that is why I need help. I don't know how to go on a date."

"You'll be fine," Hermione said kindly. "Dress nicely, make an attempt to calm your hair, and follow his lead."

"You'll keep us updated, yeah?" Ron asked. "No more waiting to see how things turn out?"

"Yeah, of course," Harry answered honestly. "I didn't mean to wait, I just—it just sort of worked out that way. Believe me, if I remembered snogging Draco Malfoy I would have told you." Ron snorted laughter, and Hermione smiled. "I'll owl you as soon as I get home after our date."

"Owl," Hermione reminded him. "Not come bursting in during the middle of the night."

"Owl," Harry repeated. "Just an owl."

"Well all right then," Ron said, clapping his hands on his legs in an eerie imitation of his father. "Lunch? I'm starved."


	14. Chapter 14: Enduring the Error

**A/N:** I hate today. Tomorrow will be worse. Thursday I'm going back to the Harry Potter Exhibition at the cost of seeing my aunt, who I haven't seen in five years because my mom is incapable of being home alone and refuses to let my dad out of the house long enough to go to NYC if someone isn't there to babysit her. I didn't sleep enough last night, I'm going to get less tonight and even less Wednesday night.

I never ask, but please leave kind reviews?

**Chapter Fourteen**

_**Enduring the Error**_

**21**

Harry slowly deteriorated as the week went on. It got to the point where whenever anyone said his name he'd jump, and every time he got a memo his heart would fall when it wasn't from Draco. Now that Harry's work schedule had returned to normal, his daily lunches with Ron resumed, and while being in charge of planning the next raid should have been enough to distract him from just about anything, his focus was still entirely reserved for one Draco Malfoy.

When Harry woke up Thursday morning he decided the whole thing had been a joke. Some sort of twisted humor on Draco's part, meant to embarrass and humiliate. It succeeded thoroughly on both counts, as well as making Harry acutely aware of being single and how little he liked it since he and Ginny had broken up.

Though, if Harry wasn't lying to himself, his feelings were more specifically directed at being acutely aware of not dating Draco, but lying to himself was much better.

He spent the morning trudging. He trudged downstairs to make breakfast. He trudged from the stove to the table with his food. He trudged back upstairs and into the shower. He trudged out of the bathroom and over to his closet. He trudged down to his office and, well, didn't quite trudge through the Floo Network because that wasn't how it worked, but once he was in the Ministry he trudged over to the elevator and to the Auror department. He trudged through the department to his office, collecting a few strange looks but ignoring them. Ron joined him, waving a file and talking about something to do with Tentacula leaves, but Harry tuned him out. He wasn't in the mood for Tentacula leaves. He was in the mood for trudging.

With a flick of his wand he unlocked his door and trudged inside his office.

Well, trudged half a foot inside his office.

There was a rose on his desk, suspended to stand upright. There was a note tied around the stem, and Harry was only barely aware that Ron had stopped talking. With a small, nervous smile he didn't notice, he untied the note, oblivious to Ron who was leaning over his shoulder, and flipped it open.

_Pétrus_

_Reservations for two at six o'clock on Friday._

_Meet me by the fountain at five of._

_Dress well._

"Well then," Ron said, jolting Harry out of his thoughts.

"Well what?" Harry asked, tucking the note into his pocket and trying not to seem to excited. "I told you, dinner on Friday. This isn't news."

"Yeah, Harry, usually when you ask someone to dinner, it involves being in the same room as them, or maybe an owl," Ron said. "Not an enchanted rose. Also, and this is just generally speaking, but spending a hundred pounds on a first date—per person, mind you—is a bit extravagant."

Harry's jaw dropped. "I—what? No. How do you even know that? And pounds? Draco would never take me to a Muggle restaurant."

"Apparently he is," Ron replied. "I tried to take Hermione there for our five year anniversary, but three months notice wasn't enough to make reservations. It's one of the best restaurants in London, mate, if not the best, Muggle or not."

"No," Harry said again, sitting at his desk. The rose registered his presence and drifted off to the side. "There's got to be a different one. A wizard one."

Ron shrugged, looking entirely unconvinced. "If you say so. Anyway, about those Tentacula leaves—"

**22**

Harry brought his dress robes to work the next day. He didn't get much work done, which was putting it mildly. He took a very long lunch break not because he was trying to avoid work, but because he couldn't seem to focus on his food long enough to eat it, and the result was that it took him an hour and a half to eat a Panini and a bowl of soup. At quarter of six he put his work aside, cast a locking charm on his door and quickly changed. Looking in a conjured mirror he thought he looked a bit ridiculous, but he always thought that when he dressed up. Or any other time he looked in a mirror for that matter.

Then he had a moment of sheer panic, unlocked his door and yelled for Ron, who was ushered in as quickly as possible before relocking the door.

Ron looked him over and rolled his eyes. "You look very nice, Harry. Well done."

"No, no, it's not that," he said, looking down at himself and pulling on his robes. "You said Pétrus is a Muggle restaurant?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Then I can't very well wear dress _robes_ now can I?" Harry asked, looking back in the mirror. "I don't have a proper suit, never mind one I keep at the Ministry. And what if you're wrong and we are going to a wizard restaurant, and I show up looking like a bloody Muggle banker? Merlin, Ron, I don't—"

"Stand still," Ron instructed, getting out his wand.

Harry's eyes widened. "No, no, no. I remember the last time you tried to transfigure robes. The Yule Ball? It was a bloody… disaster." He looked at himself in the mirror. He was now wearing a form-fitting black suit, somewhere between a regular suit and a tux. The rose, which was still residing on his desk, cut off most of its stem and floated into his breast pocket. He still felt ridiculous, but he didn't look half bad, and he had to admire Ron's transfiguration skills.

"Disguises, mate," Ron said, joining him by the mirror. "I'm an Auror, remember? Part of the job."

"Right," Harry said, smoothing his jacket. "Okay, I suppose this isn't too bad."

"You look very handsome," Ron replied, looking pained. "Now get out of here before you make me say something like that again and someone hears."

Harry's hand was on the door when he turned around. "What if it's a wizard restaurant?"

Ron let out an exasperated groan. "It's not! Now go!"

Harry garnered a lot of stares as he made his way to the fountain. He wasn't merely in Muggle clothes, which weren't _that_ uncommon, especially coming from the Auror office, but he was dressed in _fancy_ Muggle clothes, and that was much rarer. He felt particularly conspicuous standing in the elevator next to Amos Diggory and two goblins, who made no pretenses not to stare at him.

"Infiltrating a black-tie event, eh?" Amos asked, though he looked more confused than anything else.

"Er, um, yeah," Harry stammered, feeling like an "infiltration" was, in fact, a better way of describing his dinner plans than a date.

"What's it going to be, then?" he asked, and while Harry knew he was just trying to make friendly elevator conversation, he was seriously considering a quick and painless Silencing Hex. "Smugglers again? Dark wizards taking over the symphony?"

He flushed, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "Something like that."

Amos gave him a strange look. "Smugglers taking over the symphony?"

"Um, yep, definitely," Harry said.

"Who's going with you?" Amos asked. "Surely they're not sending you to the _symphony_ on your own."

"Er, Draco Malfoy, over in the Department of Mysteries," Harry replied, trying to make it sound as though that was completely normal. "Since he knows proper symphony protocol."

Amos' strange look grew stranger. "I see."

"And he's got stunning eyes," Harry said, then immediately covered for himself. "I mean he's got stunning eyesight. For seeing Death Eaters in the dark." The elevator stopped in the entrance hall, and he very quickly extracted himself from the tiny, awkward box. "See you around." He quickly made his way to the fountain, where Draco was already waiting for him. Harry's feet tangled together and he tripped, nearly upsetting a cart full of—of something he didn't see, but that growled when he slammed into it, and then almost fell face-first into the fountain, prevented from such a disaster only by Draco grabbing his shoulder and pulling him upright.

"Quite an entrance, Harry," he said with a twinkle in his eyes. "I do apologize for not letting you continue on, but I don't think the restaurant would appreciate a soaking wet guest."

Harry flushed. "Um, right." The fact was, and he was pretty sure Draco knew this, Draco looked absolutely _incredible_, and it was impossible not to stare and ogle and admire and think all sorts of things that shouldn't be thought about on a first date. He was dressed much the same as Harry, which was a relief, but he was _made_ for it, whereas Harry wasn't made for anything other than awkwardness. He looked truly stunning, and Harry really wished he knew if it was appropriate to lean in for a kiss or rest a hand on his back or even just take his arm because he _really_ wanted to touch Draco, right now.

Then Draco held out his arm, and that was better. Harry put a hand on his offered arm, and Draco smiled at him in a way that made it very hard to continue to stand up.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

Harry didn't know what he was talking about. "Yes."

Ah, of course. The crushing pressure of apparating.

**23**

Dinner was… odd. The food was delicious, the atmosphere appropriately romantic, and the conversation light and delightful. It was also entirely platonic. They talked about work—rather, Harry did, and Draco politely steered conversation away from his job—Quidditch teams, the latest single from the Weird Sisters. Harry got more and more nervous that he should be saying something else, that he was doing it all wrong, but he couldn't think of what "right" would be. Still, as they moved from entrees to dessert to after dinner wine, Harry was feeling more and more panicky. When the check arrived Draco wouldn't even let Harry see it, and merely tucked a thick fold of pound notes into the leather folder, and they left, Harry on shaky knees.

They walked outside and when Draco took Harry's hands in his, Harry found it even harder to stand.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Draco asked. "I intentionally chose a Muggle establishment; I know how little you like publicity."

Harry smiled. "Yeah. It was good."

Draco smiled back, and Harry was going to lose his battle with gravity very, very soon. "Excellent. May I request your company again next Friday?"

"Yes, of course," Harry said, maybe rushing a bit. "Did you have a plan or something?"

Draco's eyes twinkled again. "I have an idea or two." He squeezed Harry's hands, then let them go. "Until next time, then."

Harry's stomach dropped. "Uh, yeah. Next time."

Still smiling beautifully, Draco apparated away.

Harry stared at the spot where he had been, wondering just how badly he had screwed up. Didn't dates—even proper, courtship, first dates—typically end in a kiss or being walked to the door or—or—

He needed to see Hermione.

Harry burst through Ron and Hermione's Floo a moment later, severely startling his friends, who had apparently fallen asleep on the couch.

"Harry James Potter!" Hermione yelled, picking herself up from the floor, where Ron had accidentally knocked her with the force of his surprised jolt. "Do you see an owl in our apartment?"

Harry looked around. "Uh, yeah. Pig's right there."

Her eyes narrowed. "Do you see _your_ owl in our apartment?"

Harry felt himself shrink. "No."

"Do you recollect a Floo call in your immediate past?"

"No."

"Then get out."

Harry's eyes widened. "But 'Mione, I—"

Her eyes narrowed further, and Harry recognized her don't-fuck-with-me look easily enough. "You may come back only when you have been _invited_ back. You have means of communicating with us. Now go away."

Harry let out an undignified sigh, grabbed a handful of Floo powder and returned to Grimmauld Place. Then he tossed in another handful of powder and stuck his head in.

"Oh, look, Ron," Hermione said neutrally. "Harry's face is in our fireplace."

"So it is," Ron replied amicably.

"Hello," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "Could I come over for a bit? Just got back from my _date_ with _Draco Malfoy_. Nothing too big going on, just thought I'd pop in for a chat. Dinner, dessert, wine, his eyes. Y'know, that sort of thing."

Hermione looked at Ron. "What do you think, dear?"

"Wouldn't mind if you don't."

She turned back to the fireplace. "All right, Harry. Come on over."

Feeling very annoyed, Harry pulled his head out of the fireplace, threw in yet _another_ handful of Floo powder, and once again emerged in their living room. By this time he was completely covered in soot, as was his suit, and he spent a long while brushing it off before collapsing in his chair, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes.

"That bad, eh?" Ron asked.

"No," Harry said petulantly. "I don't know. It was fine. We have plans for next Friday."

There was a moment of silence.

"Then what's the problem?" Ron asked. "You look miserable."

Harry glared at him. "Do I? I was thinking I was brilliantly happy and jumping with joy and that's why I was collapsed in a heap on your chair looking like someone just told me an entire litter of Crup puppies were killed."

"Harry, what happened?" Hermione asked, finally sounding concerned instead of angry.

"_I don't know_," he repeated. "I really don't. Everything was delicious and the conversation was good and Draco was fucking _gorgeous_, like really, sex on legs, his eyes were twinkling the whole bloody time, and afterward he asked me out for next Friday, and he held my hands while he did that, so that was all good, and then he disapparated and that was fine because the date was over but…"

Another moment of silence.

"But what?" Hermione asked gently.

"But I don't understand courtships!" he said, throwing his arms up in the air. "I have no idea how to act or what to say or what to expect or what _not _to expect and I can't ask because then I'd seem idiotically daft, so I'm just left to flounder about while Draco is perfectly charming and beautiful and confident and I can hardly stand up."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, I heard about your mishap by the fountain. You know that was a rabid Kneazle you almost set loose in the Ministry, right?"

Harry flushed. "Sod off. My point is that—"

"You're disappointed you didn't get a good night kiss, aren't you?" Hermione interrupted. "Perhaps additionally that you didn't know if you were to expect one or not, but even if you knew in advance it wasn't within proper wizarding courtship traditions, you'd still be disappointed."

Harry stared at her. "I—no," he said defensively. "I meant in general. And since when do you know about proper wizarding courtship traditions?"

"I did some research after you told us about his intentions," she replied. "It's quite fascinating, actually. The history dates back to—" Ron elbowed her, and she cleared her throat. "Well, if you'd like a rundown of what to expect, I can help."

Harry put his glasses back on and slumped into the chair. "I dunno."

Ron's eyebrows shot up. "You don't know? Harry, you've done nothing but complain about how you don't know what's going on or what to do—not just tonight, mind you, but from the very moment you showed up last week asking for help. Do you know what we've talked about at lunch this week? Draco. Do you know what we've talked about at the office this week? Draco. Do you know what—"

"Shut up," Harry interrupted testily. "That's not true. Yesterday we were talking about Tentacula leaves."

"No, _I_ was talking about Tentacula leaves," Ron corrected. "You were moping."

Harry glared at him, then replayed the scene in his mind and realized he was right. He let out a sigh. "Okay, fine. It was my first date in four years, and my first date ever with a man. So what if I was distracted?"

"So if you wanted to be _less_ distracted, I could help," Hermione said again. "At least somewhat. I don't know how traditional Draco is planning, and the most modern instances of traditional courtship I could find were from early last century, but I can at least give you an idea."

Harry considered. He was being very stupid, even stupider than before, but part of him didn't want the surprise ruined. Another part really wanted to know what the bloody hell was going on. And yes, part of him wanted very much to know why he hadn't gotten a good night kiss and if he had done something wrong and hadn't deserved one, or if it was just tradition.

"Was this normal?" he asked. "Er, I mean—um—"

Hermione smiled kindly. "A kiss is not considered appropriate for a first date. Scheduling the next, from what I can tell, is pushing it, and you should be happy he already did. Everything sounds perfectly on track."

Harry let out a sigh of relief. "All right then."

"Harry—" Ron started, but Hermione elbowed him and shot him a look, her we-have-already-discussed-this-and-decided-not-to-say-anything look.

Harry really wished he didn't know her looks so well. "What is it?" he groaned. "Come on, I'm not in the mood to play twenty questions. Just tell me."

"It's nothing," Hermione said calmly.

"You're in love with the git, aren't you?" Ron asked.

Harry gaped at him. "No!" he exclaimed. "No, of course not! I don't even know if I like him that way, or _any _way, come to that! This is an experiment, that's all, to see how things go! What in the name of all that is Merlin would make you think that?"

His friends exchanged another look.

"Harry, really—"

"Because you can't shut up about him!" Ron interrupted. "Merlin, Harry, what I said earlier, that was putting it lightly. Have you _any_ idea how much of what you say revolves around him? I get that you were holding it in for a while before you told us what was going on, but _Merlin_, really, it's like bloody floodgates. And then you show up in our apartment without owling or calling because you didn't get a good night _kiss_? Bloody hell, if I was going off your expression alone, I would've thought he'd tried to kill you, or maybe that you'd just had sex. Those expressions are pretty similar. Guess how many times today you've mentioned his eyes."

Harry was literally shocked into silence, and it took him several moments to recover. "Not once!" he exclaimed.

"Wrong," Ron said. "Once when you were getting dressed—rather, when _I _dressed you, but let's not go into that—once to Amos Diggory, who came to me because he was concerned about Aurors going to the Muggle Symphony and once since you've been here."

Harry continued to stared at him. "No," he said again. "No, that's ridiculous. You're putting me on. I'd know if I said that. Those. Whatever. You're wrong."

"Harry, I heard you," Hermione interjected. "You said he looked gorgeous, like he was 'sex on legs', and that his eyes were 'twinkling' the whole night."

"I—I did not," he protested.

"Yeah, Harry, you did," Ron said. "Look, mate, it's nothing to be ashamed of. Hermione didn't want to tell you at all, but I thought that, well, given how you can be when there's someone you like, and how oblivious you are, you should probably know what you're getting yourself into."

"What do you mean, how I can be?" Harry shot back.

"You just get—enthusiastic," Hermione said lightly. "And a bit, er, consumed. Remember with Cho, and that was all you could talk about? And then Ginny, how you spent a year pining after her? And…"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "And?"

"And that you've been obsessing over Malfoy since you first met him," Ron said. "Following him around, concocting theories, constantly in his face. And now this."

"I _hated_ him," Harry said slowly, as if he was talking to a child. "I couldn't stand the git, and I was worried he was a Death Eater and was planning something big—_which he was_. And now—now—_he asked me out!_ You're acting like this was all my idea, but he was the one who bloody started it!"

"Doesn't matter," Ron said. "You're the one who's disrupted a quiet evening at home by being a complete and utter wreck."

"I—you—" Harry sputtered. "Fine," he declared, standing. "I'll leave. Thanks for all the help, you've been brilliant. See you at work."

"Harry, stop," Hermione sighed. "Sit back down. We just don't want you to get hurt, okay? You're going into this awfully fast."

"I am not," Harry huffed, though he did sit back down. "The first time I found him—at a bar, the first time we got drinks together we just happened to run into each other—that was, what, a month ago? Two?" He needed to watch himself with the MuggleWatch stuff; if he let something slip, he'd never hear the end of it. More likely, he'd never hear anything at all, because Draco would completely shut him out and stop talking to him entirely.

"During which time you continued to go out for secret drinking nights, went clubbing, snogged, and drunkenly confessed feelings for each other," Ron said, then added, "Or that last bit was just him, though I'm not sure I believe that. Then you agreed to be _courted_, which is bloody ridiculous. And that _was_ only a week ago, and already you're—you're—"

"Involved," Hermione supplied politely. "It's fine that you are, nobody's saying it isn't, but you should be aware of how you feel."

"I don't know how I feel," Harry snapped. "I told you that. I wasn't upset that I didn't get a kiss, I was upset that I didn't know what to expect. I agreed to a second date to see how things go. Yes, the first date went well. No, that doesn't mean I'm bloody in _love_ with the man. It means I'm not openly adverse to a continuation of what could maybe—_maybe_—lead to something."

"You use big words when you're embarrassed," Ron stated.

Harry let out a yell of annoyance. "Forget it. I'm going home."

That time he didn't let Hermione's protests or Ron's presumptions stop him, and he was back in his study staring at the mess of papers on his desk before he realized just how much he had been expecting that kiss. His stomach dropped.

He trudged upstairs to take a shower.


	15. Chapter 15: Musing the Memos

**A/N: **I was going to apologize for my shortest chapter and biggest cliffhanger falling on the weekend, only then I remembered it's Wednesday. This means I'm going to the HP Exhibition tomorrow. Inspiration ho!

On a more meta note…

You know those days where you feel all detached and like you might be going crazy or possibly dying? I always feel capable of something really great on those days, if only I could figure out what it was.

Today is one of those days. My immediate plans are to go buy a case for Alonso my Kindle and do a small bit of mini-roadtrip-shopping at Walgreens.

I must be sure not to waste this day.

(p.s. If you are looking to achieve this particular brand of enlightenment, I did it by sleeping for 7 hours a night for five or six nights, then pulling an all-nighter and reading _The Fault in Our Stars_. Even if you don't want enlightenment, read the book. Seriously.)

**Chapter Fifteen**

_**Musing the Memos**_

**24**

Harry owled Ron and Hermione after his shower, apologizing for yelling and asking if they were still on for their Saturday lunch. They were, and the meal was perfectly pleasant. Draco's name was not mentioned once, and that suited Harry just fine.

The rest of the weekend was somewhat less productive. Harry fell back into his normal habits of reading and littering papers he didn't read around the house and having pasta with cold sauce for dinner because he couldn't be arsed to heat it up. This funk had nothing to do with Draco and was exclusively related to how lonely Grimmauld Place was. He had gotten used to doing nothing other than working and sleeping, and ever since he was back on his regular schedule again, he couldn't seem to remember how to have a life now that he was allowed one.

So yes, reading and making a mess and sometimes watching crappy Muggle TV because there wasn't anything else to do and apparently he had to wait until Thursday to be informed of his plans with Draco. But that wasn't relevant, because he wasn't moping. Since there was nothing to mope over.

Bloody hell, maybe Ron was right.

Not right enough that he was going to admit anything, of course.

Maybe right enough that he had come down with a serious case of the mopes.

But that was neither here nor there.

The weekend dragged on, and Harry was so excited to have something to do again that he got to work a good hour and a half early. This proved to be a bad idea, as by two or three he was in desperate need of a nap, but at least he got through all of his paperwork and could start officially planning the next raid. He was in charge again, and that felt good and normal, and after his stint planning the next MuggleWatch taskforce, choosing the wizards to go on the raid was mind numbingly easy.

The only difficult part was that, by all logic and reason, it should be scheduled for Friday night after work. There was supposed to be a meeting consisting of almost all of the lingering Death Eaters at eleven that night, and while it was fairly likely no such meeting existed—the day when Death Eaters got stupid enough to gather in one place was the day Harry was out of a job—it still needed to be investigated.

Unfortunately, Death Eaters were not known for scheduling their meetings around Harry's social life.

With shaking hands, having no idea whatsoever what the reply would be, Harry sent a memo off to Draco, telling him he'd have to cancel Friday. He spent a while trying to figure out how to ask for an invitation for another day without sounding pathetically needy, and eventually just left it off entirely. He knew that sent all sorts of wrong messages, but so did not getting a good night kiss.

Which, he was aware, was not reasonable logic.

He got a return memo immediately.

_Harry—_

_Good luck with your raid, then. May you catch many a Death Eater._

—_Draco_

So maybe not asking to reschedule wasn't a good plan. Feeling very foolish, Harry wrote back.

_Draco—_

_Any chance of rescheduling?_

—_Harry_

Harry turned back to paperwork, wondering how pathetic that sounded. _Any chance_? Really? Pretty much anything else would have been better. _Want to_? _Interested in_? _Another day_? _Any chance_ was just awful.

He shook himself and stared at the blueprints in front of him. There were three entrances on the ground floor—front door, back door and servant's entrance. Eighteen windows on the first floor. Twenty-eight on the second floor. So that'd mean three Aurors on each door, and another nine on each side of the house. Harry hated big houses; he'd take a dank basement over a Manor any day. That was fifty four Aurors outside, never mind the teams going in. He rubbed his temples. All this for something that would almost certainly amount to nothing. All this for a canceled date.

A memo zoomed in, and Harry snatched it out of the air eagerly.

_Harry—_

_I already moved our reservations to Saturday. You needn't concern yourself with such things; I'll take care of it._

—_Draco_

He needn't? Maybe if Draco _said_ something he might not. Leaving the specifics until the day before was one thing, but not bothering to tell him the day entirely? That just wasn't fair, regardless of any courting traditions.

_Draco—_

_Keep me in the loop, yeah? What if I'd had weekend plans?_

—_Harry_

Back to the blueprints. There were supposed to be as many as fifty Death Eaters present. So maybe twenty-five Aurors for inside? That'd bring the total to nearly eighty. Merlin, this was getting out of hand. Maybe he and Ron could just go up and knock on the front door and politely inquire as to whether or not there were any Death Eaters on the premise and, if there were, if they would mind terribly stepping out in a calm, orderly fashion.

…yeah, right.

If it weren't for their bloody habit of turning to _smoke_, things would be so much simpler.

Another memo flew in.

_Harry—_

_So sorry to offend your delicate sensibilities. Do you have weekend plans?_

—_Draco_

Harry flushed. There was no way he could answer that with any dignity.

_Draco—_

_It's the principle of the matter. What time on Saturday? I'm busy at lunch._

—_Harry_

Okay, so maybe he could get away with less Aurors. Three on each door, and maybe three for each side, and ten going in? That felt less wasteful. Then again, if there really _were_ fifty Death Eaters inside, they'd be screwed.

But really. Death Eaters were not that stupid. At most they'd catch one or two, and maybe enough evidence to take them to court. More likely the entire night would be a wash, and he'd have a bunch of angry Aurors on his hands demanding to know why they had cancelled their Friday night plans to stand around and do nothing.

A new memo, a new distraction, a new nervous twist of the stomach.

_Harry—_

_Do you have day plans, or are you merely attempting to get back at me?_

—_Draco_

Did that mean that Draco had intended on spending the day with him? That would be—be something.

_No, I actually have lunch plans with Ron and Hermione. I suppose I can cancel if it's important. What did you have in mind?_

—_Harry_

Okay. So. Yes. Three Aurors on each door, three on each side of the building, and ten going in the front door. He began jotting down names, moving them around the blueprint as he considered tactical positions.

_Harry—_

_And leave out all the mystery? I think not. Cancel your plans. I'll pick you up at Grimmauld Place at eleven._

—_Draco_

Harry couldn't help smiling. Then he remembered it was only Monday, and his spirits dropped. Not too low, though; he had been upgraded from night-plans to all-day-plans. That was better, probably. Definitely better. Almost definitely better. He sent back a quick _See you then_ and went back to work.

The week dragged on.

Friday night made up for it in spades.

**25**

The short version was that they got slaughtered. The slightly longer version was that there were thirty or so Death Eaters waiting for them, and they were completely ambushed. The battle was brief and not quite deadly, but as far from success as one could get. Five of his men wound up at St. Mungo's, and one Death Eater had been hexed badly enough to require medical attention. They captured another without potential fatal injuries, but it was someone who was already on their list of known offenders who they had been using as a tracker; that had been how they'd found out about tonight's meeting, in fact. That plan was clearly over.

When the sparks had finally settled and the injured had been rushed away, time had jumped forward and it was nearly one in the morning. Harry didn't know how that was possible since he could have sworn the battle had lasted no more than five minutes, but when he conferred with Ron it seemed he was significantly off. Then there was the hospital, and bringing the Death Eater in, and gathering around the office Pensieve to save the memories before they could fade.

Last, and this took quite a bit of time, was an argument with Ron regarding whether or not Harry had to go to the hospital. Harry insisted he was fine; he was hardly bleeding at all anymore, and he'd taken a blood-replenishing potion as soon as he'd gotten back. Ron argued that there was a giant gash across his forehead, as well as one on his arm and another just to the right of a very important area he would be wise to make sure still functioned properly.

"They're just scratches!" Harry insisted as they took the elevator up. "I've had worse! I've used Dittany, I've got more than enough blood, and I have that salve at home that'll take care of the rest. And Ron, really, I'd know if something was wrong down there."

Ron frowned. "Hermione won't like it."

"Hermione doesn't have to know about it, now does she?" Harry asked. "But really, there's nothing to know. I got a bit scratched up. No curses or hexes, just a poorly aimed _Reducto_. I'm fine."

They arrived at the Floo gates, and Ron still looked worried. "You promise you'll go tomorrow if you're still bleeding?"

"I promise," Harry said.

"And you'll owl ahead or Floo call after your date," Ron confirmed for the thousandth time.

"Yes."

"Or if you end up at St. Mungo's?"

"_Yes_, Ron," Harry groaned. "Now let me go, would you? I'm exhausted and I've got to get up tomorrow."

Ron eyed his wounds once more, and sighed in defeat. "All right, fine. Owl us even if you are okay, will you? I'm sure word's gotten back to 'Mione somehow, and you know how worried she gets."

"Yeah, fine."

Harry stepped into the Floo and went straight for his bedroom. He knew he was disgusting and should really take a shower but he was too exhausted. He'd get up early, he reasoned, and shower then. If his sheets got dirty and a little bloody, he'd just do a wash early. Or buy new ones entirely, depending on how lazy he was.

He did make himself apply the balm, though. He was still bleeding, which even exhausted he realized might not be the best sign. But it seemed to clear up as the salve sunk into his skin, and he went to bed tired but unworried.

A bit of a mistake, as it turned out.


	16. Chapter 16: Blurring the Brain

**A/N:** I got to go back to the HP Exhibition yesterday and I got to touch Snape's robes again and life is really good.

**Chapter Sixteen**

_**Blurring the Brain**_

**26**

"_Harry!_ Wake up_!_"

Harry grumbled and reached for his alarm clock to snooze it again. He had vague memories of doing that a while ago, but another five minutes couldn't hurt. His hand landed on bare wood, and was immediately enveloped in two warm hands. "What's—sleeping."

"No, Harry, you have to wake up. Now."

He squeezed his eyes shut. Who was that? His alarm clock didn't talk to him. Nor did it have hands. "Five more minutes," he muttered. He tried to roll over but the movement caused a sharp, glassy pain to erupt from his hip, and he was suddenly wide-awake.

"Jesus fucking Merlin!" he yelled, jerking his hand away from—from Draco? But he wasn't due for another two hours. The movement caused another shooting pain in his hip, and two more joined it, one in his right arm and the other on his forehead. Was it his scar again? Was Voldemort—?

No. Whatever was going on, it wasn't Voldemort.

"Harry," Draco said softly, pushing his hair back and off whatever was on his forehead. That was better. Even just the softness of his hair was excruciating. "I'm going to take you to St. Mungo's, okay?"

He remembered what happened now. The fight with the Death Eaters. "No, I'm fine," he said, carefully curling in on himself. "Just a few scratches."

"You are _not_ fine," Draco said firmly. "These so-called scratches are red and swollen and oozing reddish purple pus. And, apparently, agonizingly painful. You have to be seen by a Healer."

Harry frowned, and the creasing of the skin of his forehead caused him to let out a hiss of pain. "Reddish purple?"

"Yes," Draco confirmed.

"What causes reddish purple pus?"

"I don't know," he said patiently. "That's why you have to see a Healer."

Harry closed his eyes again. "I'm too tired," he said, pulling the blankets up to his chin. "You're here early. Thought you weren't coming until eleven."

"It _is_ eleven," Draco said. "Quarter past, actually. I got worried when you didn't answer the door. Word had spread about the battle, and I was right in assuming you were experiencing delayed effects of a curse. Come on, get up. I'm not giving in, and you're in too much pain to fight me."

"Really, just _Reducto_," Harry said, already slipping back to sleep.

"_Hey_!" Draco shouted, jarring him awake. "This is nothing so simple. Do you really want me to manhandle you when you're in this much pain?"

Harry sighed. He desperately wanted to stay in bed, but it seemed getting up was inevitable. Wincing, he pulled himself into a sitting position, sliding his feet into the waiting slippers. "Fine," he mumbled. "Okay, fine. Let's go."

He tried to stand, but the pain coming from his hip was too much, and he collapsed back onto his bed. Draco wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him into a standing position. "Is this okay?"

"Fine," Harry muttered through clenched teeth.

"I lifted the anti-apparation charm," Draco said. "I didn't want to risk you using the Floo like this, not when soot could get in your wounds. I'm taking you straight to St. Mungo's; are you ready?"

"Just do it."

The pain of apparating was enough to make him pass out.

**27**

Harry woke up to see several white blurs hovering over him. They were talking softly, and one of them reached forward and touched the cut on his forehead. Everything went glassy and blurry and the last thing he saw before losing consciousness again were silvery grey eyes.

**28**

The next time he opened his eyes there was more white blurriness, and a bright light shining into his eyes. He squinted and groaned against the brightness, and then groaned again as the squinting caused a searing pain across his forehead.

"Harry?" a soft voice asked.

"Nnuhhh."

A warm weight on his hand, then fingers wrapping around his. "Hon, go back to sleep."

"Mmnguh."

He vaguely noticed a red blur off to the side before drifting away.

It was darker this time, though a soft light was coming from somewhere. There was still a hand wrapped around his, and that was nice. He thought he might be in less pain, too. He tried turning his head, and that wasn't so bad.

A black blur topped with a white blur was next to him. Quiet, steady breathing meant the blur was probably asleep. Was it Draco? That didn't make sense. Why would he stay with him, especially if it was late and he wanted to sleep? Shouldn't he just have gone back to the Manor?

**29**

The next time he opened his eyes it was bright again. He felt much more awake this time, though everything was still blurry. Probably because his glasses were off. He had an IV in one arm, and his cuts felt sticky and tacky.

"Mmnguh?"

Warm grey eyes met his. "Harry?"

He squinted, trying to bring the blur into focus. "Draco?"

Draco squeezed his hand. "You're awake," he said with a smile. "And coherent."

"Why're you here?" Harry muttered. "You should go home."

"Shut up," Draco said. "You stayed with me while I was drunk. A lot. The least I can do is stay with you while you recover from a life-threatening curse." That wonderful half-smirk.

Wait, though. His words may have been more relevant than his smirk, at least for the moment. "Life-threatening?" Harry asked blearily. "What? I thought _Reducto_."

Draco shook his head. "_Infecta Conscidisti_," he said. "But don't worry about it, you'll be fine." A full smirk. "Thanks to me."

Harry found that when Draco's egotism was on his side rather than being thrown in his face it was rather endearing. "Where're Ron and 'Mione?"

"Getting lunch," Draco said. "They'll be back soon."

Harry closed his eyes and sighed. "Sorry for ruining our date."

Draco laughed. "You're hereby forgiven. Besides, you got me to spend the night with you. I'm not supposed to do that for quite some time."

"How long was I asleep for?"

"Just a night," Draco replied. "It's Sunday."

"Mm, okay."

He drifted for a while, not quite asleep or awake, and forced himself awake when Ron and Hermione came in. They broke into identical grins when they saw he was awake.

"Harry!" Ron said exuberantly. "How're you feeling?"

"Not great," he said. "Okay, I guess."

"You're lucky Draco brought you in when he did," Hermione said, taking his other hand.

Harry whimpered. "Don't inflate his ego any further."

Draco squeezed his hand reassuringly. "I did tell you so," he said.

"Sod off," Harry sighed. "Nn, Ron, how're the Aurors?"

"Fine," Ron said, conjuring a third chair and sitting by his side. "Since they came in _right away_, and got treatment _right away_, they got to go home _right away_."

Harry whimpered again. "I'm sick," he said. "Stop badgering me. The cursed Death Eater?"

"Fine," Ron said again. "Well, arrested, going to trial and facing life in Azkaban. But other than that, fine."

Harry smiled. "Okay, good. And Kingsley? Am I fired or suspended or anything?"

"I don't think so," Ron replied. "Not that I've heard. You'll have to ask him."

"Mm," Harry sighed. "Good."

A Healer came in, adjusted his IV and asked him a few questions. He was declared "doing well" and once again told he "should have come in earlier". Harry ignored that, closing his eyes again. He was informed he could go home "soon" and, when he asked further, was told "we'll see". Then the Healer left, and Harry drifted off again.

**30**

"Harry, wake up."

He flinched, then cracked his eyes open. There was a white, unfamiliar blur. A Healer, then.

"Nnuhhh?"

"It's dinnertime," she said cheerfully. "And it's time for you to eat."

Draco handed him a remote. "This button raises your bed."

Harry couldn't see it at all, but he put his finger where Draco's had been and eased himself into a sitting position. It didn't hurt that much, just a momentary sharp burst from his hip and then he was okay.

"Can I have my glasses?" he asked. "I can't eat blurry and left handed."

The Healer gave him his glasses, and everything came into focus. She was pretty, with black hair and kind, dark brown eyes. Draco was to his left, and for once he didn't look perfect. His hair was mussed and sticking up at odd angles, and his clothes were rumpled.

"Draco, have you been here the whole time?"

He flushed, just a little, two pink spots staining his porcelain skin. "Somebody had to make sure you're okay," he said uncomfortably. "I determined the odds of you deciding you could leave without permission were far greater if left to your own devices than if I stayed to babysit."

"You can leave, really," Harry protested. "Believe me, I'm not going anywhere. I might be reckless and stupid, but I don't want to _die_."

"Eat, Harry," the Healer said. "I have to make sure you're well enough to eat."

Harry did, very awkwardly. His right arm was in a sling, and managing a fork with his left hand wasn't going well. Partway through Ron and Hermione returned, and they were extremely pleased to see he was eating. So was his Healer, who left partway through his meal, declaring him "food-worthy".

"I heard from Kingsley, Harry," Ron said. "No punishment. You did everything by the books."

"Good," Harry said around a bite of tasteless mashed potatoes.

"I spoke to Minister Shacklebolt as well," Draco said. "You are going to be released tomorrow morning, and I have permission to take off work to take care of you."

Harry flushed. "I'll be fine," he muttered. "I don't need a babysitter."

"Actually, you do," Hermione said. "The condition of your release is that you have someone to watch out for you. Ron and I offered to host you, but—and I'm not entirely sure you were conscious for this—you absolutely insisted on going home."

Harry frowned. "I did?"

Hermione smiled. "Yes. So Draco offered to stay with you."

Harry glanced at him. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

"Don't worry about it," Draco replied. "Like I said, I owe you."

"If you say so," Harry replied skeptically. "I'm not sure this compares with getting sick from drinking, but I suppose." Then he hit Ron's hand with his fork. "Don't steal my Jell-O."

Ron looked admonished, especially at the glare Hermione gave him. "Sorry."

Harry finished dinner—including his Jell-O—and stayed up until the socially acceptable time of ten-thirty. Ron and Hermione were forced to leave at seven when visiting hours were over, but Draco flashed a badge and mentioned the Department of Mysteries and wasn't bothered any further. The two of them talked pleasantly, the same sort of easy conversation as on their date.

When he could no longer keep his eyes open, Draco smiled softly and squeezed his hand. "Go to sleep."

"Nn, I wanna be released tomorrow," he said. "Need to prove I'm awake. Healthy, I mean. By being awake."

"You're going to be released, it's already been decided," Draco said. "Unless you get worse, which you will if you don't get enough sleep. Please, Harry. Sleep."

Harry let his eyes close, relaxing into the bed. Then he frowned. "Earlier," he started. "Earlier, when you were talking to me, did you call me 'hon'?"

There was a pause. "Go to sleep, Harry."

Harry smiled. That was a yes. "Mkay."

**31**

Harry was woken every two hours to have his vitals taken, and he was no longer so deep in a medication and illness induced sleep that he slept through it. It was very annoying, though at least he could fall back asleep without much trouble. At first. His six am check woke him up for real, at which point he could do nothing other than stare at the ceiling.

Draco was woken up by his eight o'clock check, and then they sat around and chatted, waiting for a Healer to officially release him. Harry ate the rubbery eggs he was brought for breakfast, as did Draco—apparently at some point he had convinced the Healers he deserved hospital meals as well. He complained during the whole meal, but Harry found it rather nice he had someone to sympathize with.

Harry was still surprised at how easily conversation flowed. They hadn't even been drinking and they were talking like old friends. When Harry was finally released around nine he was no longer nervous about spending so much time with Draco. He was given a potion to take every six hours and a salve to be applied before bed. He was also told, quite firmly, not to use the cream he had at home on a cursed wound. Harry tried to tell them that he didn't _know_ he had been cursed, but the instructions were just repeated, and this time Harry nodded obediently.

Harry and Draco Flooed to Grimmauld Place, and even though they went together and Draco kept an arm around his waist, he stumbled and nearly passed out, or maybe threw up, when they came out in Grimmauld Place.

"Ugh, sitting room," Harry groaned. "Don't wanna go upstairs."

"I assumed as much." Draco helped him over to the couch, and propped him up against a pile of pillows. "How're you doing?"

"Mm," Harry sighed. "Think I'm gonna take a nap."

Draco kissed the top of his head, which made Harry shiver pleasantly. "Do you mind if I go through your library and find something to read?"

"Mm," Harry sighed, lifting his hand in acquiescence, and fell asleep.

Draco woke him up for lunch, and Harry was reasonably awake and coherent. They ate, then talked and relaxed. It wasn't weird or awkward, and that in and of itself was kind of weird, but Harry went with it.

During a lull in conversation Harry decided to ask the question that had been burning since he'd first woken up—properly, not when he was dazed.

"Draco?"

"Yes?" he replied, silver eyes meeting Harry's and making his stomach flip.

"What were we going to do on Saturday?"

Draco smiled coyly. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Harry. I still intend to take you on that date once you're well enough to leave the house."

Harry couldn't stop his smile. "And Friday night?"

"The same, of course," Draco replied. "Admittedly, this is not part of a traditional courtship, but I mean to pick up where we left off when you are healthy."

Harry paused. "What, exactly, does a traditional courtship entail?"

Draco smirked. "You'll see."

"No, I'm serious," Harry said, shifting so he didn't have to crane his neck to see Draco. "I don't want to expect or say the wrong thing."

"Ah, yes," Draco said, still with that smirk. "Hermione told me about your tantrum regarding a good night kiss."

Harry flushed darkly and turned away. "I didn't have a tantrum," he said irritably. "It didn't bother me, I just didn't understand."

"Perhaps tantrum was Ron's word," Draco amended. "But I have no doubt it bothered you."

"Well I don't know," Harry said testily. "I thought that was how dates went. It's fine, really, I just didn't know."

"Wizard courtships move slower than Muggle ones," Draco replied. "The first kiss doesn't occur until the third date. The third _proper_ date, Harry, not the MuggleWatch nonsense, and not the club, either. The dates must occur after I make my intentions known. Taking you to the hospital also doesn't count. Our only proper date has been at _Pétrus_."

"I see," Harry said, stomach dropping from needing to wait and heart fluttering from the romanticism.

"Though," Draco said thoughtfully. Also calculatedly, Harry thought, like he had been considering this for quite some time. "Given the failed date, and how I'm caring for you on top of everything that's already happened, I suppose a quick kiss couldn't hurt. You are, after all, sick, and allowances made for such things are not unheard of."

Harry smiled. "Yeah?"

Draco moved over and knelt down so he was at Harry's level. "This is still highly improper," he said, running a hand down Harry's cheek.

Harry sighed. "Mkay."

"And after this, we return to what tradition dictates."

"Mhm."

Draco smiled beautifully. "Okay."

His lips met Harry's, and for a moment Harry was terrified that he was going to pull away immediately, and all he would get was a simple brush of the lips. But Draco stayed where he was, sneaking a hand around to the back of Harry's neck, still pressing their lips together. His lips were soft and undemanding, He made no attempt to deepen the kiss, and Harry let him take the lead. After what seemed like ages and no time at all he pulled away, and gave Harry another dazzling smile.

"Was it worth breathing the rules for?"

Harry laughed shakily. "All the rules."


	17. Chapter 17: Speeding the Slow

**A/N:** Hey guys! I've got some exciting things coming up that I can't wait to share with you! After this there's only one chapter of Sidetracked left, but I have a ton of stuff both in the works and ready to be published. I've got three finished stories, one full-length Harry/Snape novella called Starched Cuffs that was, yes indeed, inspired by touching his cuff, and that's eight chapters long. And two Severus/Draco stories—a three-shot called The Spaghetti and the Flame, and a different three-shot called How to Ask the Question. I'm also working on the alternate Snarry ending to Unexpected Effects I promised you guys ages ago, back when I first published it. It's not quite done yet, but it's getting there! That one is going to be published differently than the others, since I'm so late in putting it up at all. Maybe all at once when it's done? Perhaps one chapter a day? We'll see.

…and yes, there is a lot of Snape. I touched his cuff. Twice. He's mine, my hero, I love him forever, I am his Half Blood Princess.

…I never said that, that's way too pathetic. Anywho, I love him to pieces and he's being written about ALL the time. Worse things have happened, _non_?

But for now, enjoy your Drarry! And know there is more of that in my future, I've just been overcome with a Severus muse :)

**Chapter Seventeen**

_**Speeding the Slow**_

**32**

Harry was recovered by Wednesday. He was a little disappointed; it wasn't until he and Draco separated at the Ministry that morning he realized how much he had enjoyed spending so much time with Draco. Due to the rules of the courtship he didn't get a goodbye kiss or anything, just a sexy smile and a "See you later" as he walked into an elevator.

Harry spent the morning wading through paperwork. Every Auror from the raid had filed their own report; Harry needed to write his own and then compress all the reports into a one-foot summary detailing the event. He didn't know who had decided on the "summary detailing" part, considering the contradiction, but it was his job.

He also spent the morning hiding in his office. The Aurors weren't pleased with him. It seemed being ambushed didn't put anyone in a good mood, even with most of a week to recover. The only point in his favor was that he spent the weekend in the hospital, but even so, he was mostly getting nasty looks and the occasional veiled insult.

He had lunch with Ron and Hermione, where he was forced to explain in excruciating detail his time with Draco. He tried to tell them that nothing happened, but they refused to believe him until he went over absolutely every detail. Draco slept in the guest room. Draco made meals. Draco was really good at wizard chess. Draco fetched the paper but let Harry read it first. Draco was very sweet and considerate and platonic and that was that.

There was a memo on Harry's desk when he returned to his office.

_I'll pick you up for dinner on Friday from your office at six. Dress well, wizard robes this time._

_Stay healthy,_

_Draco._

He quickly wrote him back confirming and once again buried himself in forms. He had a smile this time, though.

**33**

The date wasn't bad. In fact it was an awful lot like their first date. Harry had a wonderful time at a very exclusive, very fancy restaurant. Conversation was easy, Draco was stunning, and he didn't get a goodnight kiss because it was only their second date. He went over to Ron and Hermione's directly after, Flooing in directly from the restaurant. Hermione started to yell at him but Ron stopped her at Harry's expression.

"What happened?" Ron asked. "He didn't break it off, did he?"

"No," Harry sighed, slumping into his chair.

"Did it not go well?" Hermione asked. "And, just to be clear, our argument is on hold, not over. I'm very mad at you."

"Yeah, yeah," Harry said. "And no, it went fine."

"Did _you_ break it off?" Ron asked.

Harry snorted. "Yeah, right."

"Then what's the problem?" Hermione asked.

"I don't like courting," Harry said, summoning over a bottle of wine. He poured them each a glass and took a sip. "Wizard courtship is bollocks."

"Are you upset things aren't moving faster?" Hermione asked with a small smile.

"No," Harry said sullenly.

"That's sort of—"

"It's just weird, okay?" Harry interrupted. "We went out drinking. We had drunken snogging sessions. There were next-morning confessions. And now we sit and make polite conversation over bruschetta."

"Are you bored, then?" Ron asked. "Is Malfoy actually an airheaded git after all?"

Harry glared at him. "No, of course not. He's perfect."

"But you do want things to move faster," Hermione said.

"Well wouldn't you?" Harry asked irritably. "It'd be one thing if we started here, but we're moving backwards. We've shared a bed, we've all but had sex even if I don't remember it, we've kissed, and now it's just dinner. I mean, really brilliant dinner, but still. At first it was sweet and romantic and chivalrous, but now—"

"Now you want to get laid," Ron said.

"I do, but that's not my point," Harry replied. "I'd like a kiss. Or a hug. Maybe holding hands."

"Tell him," Hermione said. "You've been seeing each other officially for a month or so, never mind the drinking before that. You should be comfortable enough with him by now to have a conversation about this."

"Fine, but remember what you said about me getting in over my head?" Harry asked.

"Yes, we were worried about you," Hermione said. "We still are, especially since you practically lived with him for a few days."

"Right," Harry said. "Well, it turns out that when I get in over my head, I get a little nervous."

Ron burst into laughter. "Harry, that is too adorable. Now find your balls, and talk to him."

"I can't now," Harry said. "We just had a date. It would seem weird and desperate."

"Or spontaneous and romantic," Ron suggested.

"No," Harry replied firmly.

"Hermione?" Ron asked.

She frowned. "I don't know. Ron's right, you do need to be more assertive. But I'm not sure if immediately following a date is the right time."

"I told you," Harry said.

"Just give him a quick Floo call," Ron said. "See how it goes."

"What would I say?" Harry asked. "I'd just sound pathetic."

"No, be a man!" Ron replied. "Don't ask for a kiss—_demand_ one."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Or kiss him yourself. But not through the Floo, that would be awful."

"So go over there and snog him senseless," Ron said.

Harry sat his empty glass of wine down. "Yeah, all right."

"Harry, I really don't think—"

Ron elbowed Hermione. "Go for it."

"Okay, I'm going," Harry said firmly, going over to the fireplace. "And I'm going to snog him senseless."

"How much have you had to drink?" Hermione asked.

"Just the one glass," Harry said, grabbing a handful of powder. "Here. And a glass at dinner. Another after dinner. And, er, a second after that one because I knew that nothing was going to happen. But I'm fine, really."

"A lot of their relationship is founded on being drunk," Ron said. "It'll be fine."

"Did you say anything at dinner?" Hermione asked.

"No, I held it in," Harry said. "I'm still holding it in. I'm good. One quick kiss and then I'll go home and let all the drunk out."

"I'm not sure that's how it works," Hermione said nervously.

"I'm fine," Harry said. "Totally fine. Malfoy Manor!" He stepped into the fireplace and whirled away.

When he stumbled out of the fireplace into Draco's study he realized that no, in fact, he could not hold the drunk in. He still thought he had been fine during dinner, and probably at Ron and Hermione's, but now the room was spinning a little and everything was floaty and he felt very brave. He knew he only felt brave from the alcohol. But still, he felt brave. There was also a ringing in his ears, a very loud ringing.

Draco slammed the door open, wand out.

"Hey, I need to tell you something," Harry said.

Draco sighed. He waved his wand and the ringing disappeared. "Are you drunk?"

"Only a little," Harry replied. "But I needed to tell you this before I was drunk, so it's fine."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, Ron said a lot of our relationship is founded on being drunk," Harry said. "I'm not drunk, just tipsy, it's fine."

"Okay," Draco said, smiling a little. "Go on."

"I don't like being courted," Harry said firmly. He saw Draco's smile freeze, and the sparkle go out of his eyes. "No, wait," he continued quickly. "That came out wrong. I love dating you. But I want to date you, not be courted by you. It was great at first, really, super romantic, but—" His eyes flew open and he pointed at Draco, who had stopped looking so upset and seemed more confused. "You! You said the thing about inamoratos. I've decided, and I want you. Be my boyfriend."

Draco was fighting a smile. "No, Harry."

His face fell, and his stomach sunk. "You weren't having a good time?"

"Of course I was," Draco said, walking over to Harry. "Seeing you has been wonderful. But I'm not going to let you make such a rash decision while you've been drinking."

"I'm not drunk," Harry said irritably. "I'm a little tipsy. The ringing in my ears even went away."

"That was my security alarm, hon," Draco replied. "You're not as drunk as the last time you made a move on me, but you're still drunk. I'm relatively certain you'll remember this in the morning, so when you wake up and decide what you actually want, come back and tell me then."

"I know what I want," Harry said. "I want to kiss you. I promise that decision was made while sober; if anything, that's why I was drinking, because I knew I wanted you and you wouldn't have me." He paused. "Oh Merlin, that's not why you're trying to make me leave, is it? Because you don't want me."

"Of course I do," Draco said gently. "But I don't want to start this while you're drunk."

"_You_ started this while drunk," Harry accused. "I found you while you were drunk. You stalked me while you were drunk. You told me you wanted me while you were drunk. Everything about this has been started while drunk. And I'm not even that drunk."

"I'll meet you halfway," Draco conceded. "I'll kiss you, and you can spend the night in one of the guest rooms if you're lonely. But we're not talking about this until tomorrow."

Harry frowned. Thinking was oddly difficult. Maybe he was drunk. "Okay, fine."

Draco smiled beautifully. "Okay." He stepped forward, rested his hands on Harry's face and kissed him. Harry sighed into his mouth, tangling one hand in his hair and the other on his hip. He was soft and sweet and tasted delicious, like the tiramisu he'd had for dessert. He didn't allow Harry to deepen the kiss, but he did linger.

"That's enough," he said gently, pushing Harry away. "Do you want to stay here, or are you going home?"

"I should go home," Harry said. "I think I'm about to hit the weepy part of being drunk, and there's no need to do that here."

Draco shook his head, still smiling. "Harry, there's nothing to be weepy over. I want you, I want to be your boyfriend, and I want a lot more than just that kiss. I don't even care if you're drunk, to be honest. But I need to know you actually want me and this isn't some delusion you created because you had three glasses of wine at dinner."

"And another at Ron's," Harry said quietly.

"Yes, exactly," Draco replied. He kissed Harry's cheek. "Go home. Sleep it off. And for Merlin's sake come back here in the morning and sweep me off my feet."

Harry smiled slightly. "Fine. But I am coming back."

"You better."

He tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace and went home.

**34**

Harry woke up the next morning and rolled over, reaching out to wrap an arm around—around nothing, because the bed was empty. He opened his eyes. Of course his bed was empty. Draco had kicked him out and told him to come back when he was sober. Well, not exactly kicked out. But they weren't in bed together, that was the point. He thought they could be, though. Because he had declared himself to Draco, and he hadn't been turned away mostly. He rolled onto his back. Was that what he wanted, or had he been drunker than he thought?

The answer was immediate and obvious.

Harry rolled out of bed and half-walked, half-stumbled down to his office. He was slightly hung over and slightly asleep, but that wasn't going to stop him. He quickly Flooed to the Manor, prepared for the alarm to go off. It didn't. Harry stood in the study, confused. Why wasn't there a loud ringing in his ears? Was this a dream? That sounded like a cliché, but he was hung over, if only a little.

Then he realized: Draco must have changed the protection alarms to allow him in. He smiled, a warm feeling flooding through him. He didn't know why he had any doubts, but that quelled them. Draco definitely wanted him.

The only thing was that he really needed to see Draco right now, and he had no idea where he was or how to get anywhere. So he set off wandering, remembering that Draco's room was on the second floor but nothing else. He found the kitchen, the room with the piano and a lot of hallways before finally stumbling across a small, narrow staircase in what seemed like a closet. These were obviously not the proper stairs, but they went up, and that was all Harry needed.

Actually, they seemed to go quite a ways up. By the time he reached the first door he was convinced he'd gone up at least three flights, and when he stepped out he definitely didn't recognize his surroundings. He was at the end of a long hallway filled with portraits of curly, blonde-haired people with hazel eyes; Astoria's relatives, probably. The hallway didn't have any doors either, and Harry was starting to feel like he'd stumbled into an alternate universe where staircases and hallways went on forever.

Harry arrived at the end of the hallway where there was, finally, a door. He tried to open it but as soon as he touched the doorknob the door started shrieking at him.

"_**INSUFFERABLE PRAT! I'VE TOLD YOU TIME AND TIME AGAIN NOT TO COME IN HERE, AND YET YOU CONTINUALLY ATTEMPT TO BREAK INTO MY PRIVATE ROOMS! ALL I ASK IS THIS ONE WING TO MYSELF, AND STILL YOU FEEL THE NEED TO BOTHER ME!**_"

"I—I'm sorry," Harry stammered, stepping back. "I was looking for—"

"_**DON'T THINK MY BARRISTER WON'T HEAR ABOUT THIS! AN OWL IS ON ITS WAY TO HIM RIGHT NOW! WE HAVE MADE AN AGREEMENT AND I WILL REMOVE MY THINGS FROM THE PREMISES AS SOON AS POSSIBLE, BUT IN THE MEANTIME YOU'LL SIMPLY HAVE TO DEAL WITH BEING LOCKED OUT OF THIS ONE WING!**_"

The enchantment didn't seem to register Harry's presence at all. He continued to back away, realizing he didn't have his wand on him and that might be a mistake.

"_**UNGRATEFUL LITTLE**_—"

"Draco Lucius Malfoy promises to stay out of your rooms!"

The door stopped shrieking, and Harry turned around in relief. Draco stood before him, still in pajamas, hair mussed and looking entirely shaggable. Also pretty pissed.

"I'm so sorry," Harry said. "I didn't know—I got lost trying to find your room, and the staircase didn't have any doors…"

Draco sighed. "You took the back stairs? How did you manage to find those?"

"Well I couldn't find the main staircase," Harry said nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "And then I was just trying to get out of here and find you."

"Come on, we should leave before something else starts yelling at us," Draco said, grabbing his wrist and leading him away. "Legally I'm not allowed to be in here at all but that infernal shrieking woke me up, and it won't stop until I turn it off."

"I'm sorry," Harry said again. "You said I could come back today, and I'm not drunk anymore. Can we talk now?"

Draco moved his hand from Harry's wrist down to his hand, lacing their fingers together. He pushed one of the portraits open, and they stepped out onto the main staircase. The door slid closed, and Draco turned to face him.

"You're certainly in a rush to talk," he said, the beginnings of a smile starting to form. "Still in your pajamas, no wand, and here at the crack of dawn."

Harry flushed. "Er, what time is it?"

"A little bit after five," Draco replied, tucking his wand into his pocket and taking Harry's other hand. "I would very much like to return to bed and get a few more hours of sleep, and judging by your bloodshot eyes and slightly dazed expression you could use some more rest, too. Could I convince you to wait until it's not quite so early?"

Harry squeezed his hands and stepped forward, nuzzling his neck. He smelled delicious and his skin was so smooth and he let out a quiet sigh. "Could I convince you to let me sleep in the same bed as you?"

"Sleep?" Draco asked, letting his head fall back as Harry left feather light kisses along his neck. "Just sleep and nothing else?"

"Just sleep," Harry confirmed. Then he yawned. "Really, definitely sleep."

Draco laughed, letting Harry go and stepping away. "All right. My room it is."

"One condition, though," Harry said as they walked down the stairs. "Just sleeping, but I want to be able to hold you."

Draco shot him a coy look. "Why Harry Potter, are you requesting permission to cuddle with me?"

"It wouldn't be the first time," Harry said defensively. "We fell asleep on the couch together, and you insisted I sleep with you at Grimmauld Place. I just thought I should make sure it's okay while we're, y'know, sober."

"I should say no," Draco replied, leading them down a maze of hallways. "Really, I shouldn't let you into my bed at all. But it's very early and I haven't got the energy to argue, so I suppose I could make an exception."

"No, don't give me that," Harry said. "Yes or no. I'm not going to argue with you, or force you into anything. That's why I asked, to get your opinion."

Draco rolled his eyes. They finally came to his room, and as soon as they were inside, he kissed Harry. "Of course yes," he said, depositing his wand on a vanity and crawling back into bed. "Have you ever known me to compromise my desires to please another?"

"Suppose not," Harry said, nervously joining Draco under the covers. "But you're sure?"

Draco grabbed his arm and wrapped it around himself so they were spooning. "Yes I'm sure. Now shut up and let me get back to sleep. Merlin, I thought the days of being woken up by Astoria shrieking at me were over. You're a hazard, Potter, a bloody hazard."

Harry kissed his neck once more. "Told you I was getting impatient."

"You can be anything you want when it's not five in the morning," Draco replied. "Really, Potty. Shove it."

One last kiss. "Sleep well."

"Mm, you, too."


	18. Chapter 18: Ending the Enticement and

**A/N:** Well here it is! The end! I hope you like it. I reconflabulated the ending yesterday and I'm feeling a lot better about it. It was only a few sentences worth of change, but it made all the difference in the world, I think.

Friday I'm going to start publishing a story called _Starched Cuffs_. It's Harry/Severus and yes, it's based on my experience touching Severus' cuffs at the HP Exhibition :P It's silly and fluffy and the tiniest bit angsty and, yes, a touch smutty at the end.

For those of you keeping an eye out, I'm still working on the alternate ending for _Unexpected Effects_! It's kind of turning into more of a sequel than an alternative ending; it's around 20k words now, which is really not an end very much at all but a full story. I'm not sure how I'm going to publish it, but when it's done it will have first priority!

Anyway, enjoy your end :)

**Chapter Eighteen**

_**Ending the Enticement and Entering the Established**_

**35**

This time when Harry woke up and reached out, there was indeed a warm body next to him. He smiled to himself and curled up against the warmth. The warmth sighed happily and kissed his shoulder. Harry took a deep breath filled with vanilla and opened his eyes.

"Morning," he sighed.

"Late morning," Draco corrected with a smile. "Much better than early morning."

"I didn't check the time before I came over," Harry replied. "I was sober and the sun was up; that seemed to fulfill your requirements."

"I'll have to learn how to be more clear in the future," Draco said. "Though if it lands you in my bed, it might be worth it."

"Might be?" Harry asked, suppressing a smile.

"We need to talk first," Draco replied. "You had something to tell me, I believe. About not wanting to be courted anymore."

"That's true," Harry said, getting nervous. "Um, well. I like this. Being in your bed, I mean. And waking up with you. And kissing you. And, er, courtship doesn't seem to include those things. You originally said one date, and it's been at least two, though really a lot more than that considering what we've done that weren't official dates. The point was to make a decision, yeah? I've made my decision. And I want you."

"Are you sure?" Draco asked, and Harry was shocked to see that he seemed nervous as well. "You're sober and sure?"

"I'm both of those things," Harry said. "As long as you're also both of those things."

"I'm offended you'd think I'd be drunk at eleven in the morning," Draco mocked. "And considering that I was the one who started the courting, I'd say it's obvious that I'm sure."

"Then we're good?" Harry asked, which wasn't what he meant to say because "good" wasn't a qualifier at all, but he couldn't bring any other words to mind.

"Good?" Draco echoed.

"Okay, yeah, that wasn't exactly clear," he stammered. "But, um, so, I'd like to be your boyfriend."

"Mm, no," Draco said, though he was smiling and Harry was relatively certain there was a "but" coming.

"No?" he choked.

"I'm willing to conclude our courtship," Draco continued, "but only if we do it properly."

"I, um, okay," Harry said, not feeling very okay. "How do we do that?"

Draco took Harry's hands, smiling up at him, and Harry had no idea how his eyes were so perfect, because really, nobody had any right to be that perfect.

"Harry, you wish to move forward from our courtship?"

"Yes," Harry replied, still feeling very nervous.

"You accept my offer of—" Draco stopped, and Harry could barely breathe. Did he not want to be together? Was he trying not to hurt his feelings? If it wasn't doing those things, what word was he looking for?

"Draco, if you don't—"

"Shush," Draco interrupted. "I'm trying to decide if I should say inamorato or boyfriend, because I don't think you know what the first word means, but the second is hardly proper."

"I'll be whatever you want me to be," Harry said. "Especially if you say it quickly so I stop thinking you're trying to figure out how to let me off easily."

"Don't be an idiot," Draco replied. "Fine, I'll do it your way. Harry, will you go out with me and only me? Be my exclusive boyfriend?"

"Yes," Harry said, letting out a relieved sigh. "I said yes a month ago, and I'm saying yes now."

"Different questions," Draco replied. "Courtship versus exclusivity—"

"Can I kiss you now?" Harry interrupted. "I want you for a lot more than your body, but right now I'd really, really like that body."

Draco laughed quietly. "Yes, Harry. Kiss me all you like."

Harry did exactly that.

**36**

There were several interesting steps involved in a real relationship.

Like when Draco picked him up at his office for lunch. Harry hadn't realized the implications of such an action until Draco kissed his cheek in greeting, took his hand and the entire office fell silent as they walked out. Ron already knew, of course, and Harry had assumed Ministry gossip had gotten around so the rest of the Aurors knew as well. Evidently that was not true, and by the time they reached the door to the hallway Harry was sick of the staring.

He turned to Draco and gave him a full, deep kiss. That sort of backfired, as he still wasn't used to full, deep kisses with Draco, and he distracted himself, especially when Draco slipped his hands down to his lower back and pulled him closer. This nearly led to some activities taking place in the office in front of all of Harry's coworkers that really shouldn't take place in the office in front of all of Harry's coworkers, but Ron cleared his throat—loudly, and several times, and Harry broke away.

"My point is, we're dating!" Harry said irritably, addressing his coworkers. "You don't need to stare or stop talking! I'm gay, and I'm dating Draco Malfoy."

"Come on, Harry, give the neophytes time to adjust," Draco said, taking his arm. "Evidently they cannot do so while I am in the room, and I'm quite hungry and only have a half hour for lunch."

"See, when you say things like that, it makes people think you're a git," Harry said quietly as they walked to the café.

"And you shouting the obvious after all but mounting me is entirely reasonable," Draco said with a smirk.

"You brought hands into what was just a kiss," Harry replied.

"That was not just a kiss, dear," Draco said, smirk turning into a smile. "But it was sweet, I enjoyed it. If we come out to everyone that way, I'd be pleased. Quite sexually frustrated, but pleased."

"Yes, when we tell your parents that will definitely be how we tell them," Harry said with a smile.

"The point is moot because the papers will tell them for us," Draco replied, a hardened anxiety creeping into his voice. "After that display in your office, the entire wizarding community will know by dinnertime. Thank you, by the way. My parents may know I'm gay, but that's very different from knowing I'm in a male relationship, especially so soon after my divorce, and _definitely_ with you."

"You're okay with that?" Harry asked. "With them finding out via the _Prophet_?"

"It's certainly preferable to telling them in person," Draco replied. "Though they probably will insist on lunch or something to properly meet you."

"That reminds me," Harry said suddenly. "Double date with Ron and Hermione next Friday."

Draco sighed. "I suppose it's unavoidable. Very well."

"Promise you'll be nice," Harry said.

"I don't even know what to ask you to promise me in regards to my parents," Draco sighed. "Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

**37**

They reached that bridge the next day. Draco showed up at Harry's office at ten of six looking paler than usual.

"We're having dinner with my parents tonight," he said flatly. "We've got to leave now so we're not late. My father is a bit of a stickler for starting dinner at exactly six."

Harry upset a bottle of ink all over his reports. "Now?"

"Yes, right now," Draco said. "Are you ready to go?"

"Um, I, er, yeah, sure, just a second," Harry stammered. He waved his wand, cleaning up the ink, and grabbed his coat. "So now? Both your parents? Including your dad?"

"Yeah, that's what the letter said," Draco replied, still sounding in shock. "Come on. The Floo is all the way downstairs, and I don't want to start this off by being late."

"Right," Harry said, following Draco to the elevators. "Okay. I can do this."

"Of course you can," Draco said numbly. "Just don't mention the war, the trials, your job, the Ministry outside your job, anything we said or did while drunk, especially finding me in an alley, especially more than once, that our courtship ended before at least three dates and preferably five or ten, absolutely not that we kissed before the third date, or actually that we've ever done anything beyond kiss, nothing that happened at Hogwarts, any of your friends, the fact that you live at Grimmauld Place, the Greengrasses, especially Astoria and they'll almost certainly bring her up so be prepared to change the topic of conversation very quickly, my mom will probably ask about kids, don't answer that either, there's no right answer, but make sure to tell them we didn't start anything until after she and I separated, and—"

"We're at the Floo gate," Harry interrupted. "Dray, try to breathe, okay?"

"I will not," Draco said. He took Harry's hand, threw the Floo powder in, and said, dejectedly enough Harry was worried they'd come out at the wrong gate, "Malfoy Luxembourg residence."

Harry started the evening by making a fool of himself. He tripped on the way out of the fireplace, slipped on the oriental rug and fell, causing it to slide away from its usual place and bring a lamp crashing down.

"Good evening, Harry," Mrs. Malfoy said pleasantly.

Harry glanced over his shoulder. The bulb had shattered, a pane of Tiffany glass had fallen out of the shade and something ceramic that had apparently been nearby was now in several pieces on the floor.

Draco offered him a hand and pulled him to his feet. "Mother, Father, good to see you."

"You as well," Mr. Malfoy said coolly. "Was that my grandmother's ashtray I heard shatter?"

Draco glanced at the floor. "I believe your use of the past tense was entirely correct," he said calmly. "This is Harry, my boyfriend."

"Lovely to see you again," Mrs. Malfoy said, rising and taking his hand. "It's been quite some time."

"_Accio_ ashtray," Mr. Malfoy said tightly, and several sharp pieces of ceramic flew directly by Harry, nicking his ear in the process.

"Hon, you're bleeding," Draco told Harry. "Just slightly."

"_Episkey_," Mrs. Malfoy said lightly, and the stinging stopped. "There you are."

Draco pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his ear. "You're fine."

"_Reparo_," Mr. Malfoy said, and ceramic clinked together. "Draco, Mr. Potter is your responsibility. Please see to his mess."

"Of course, Father." Draco ushered them off the carpet and waved his wand in a grand arc. The lamp stood, the glass returned to its slot and the rug righted itself.

The clock chimed six, and a house elf with very large ears popped into the room.

"Dinner is ready!" she squeaked.

"An unnecessary interruption," Mr. Malfoy said, again very coolly. "I am aware of the time."

"Daisy is sorry, sir!" she squeaked. "Daisy will go now!"

The ashtray flew past Harry again and landed on the edge of the mantel.

"Let us continue on before the food gets cold," Mrs. Malfoy said. "We will be eating in the main dining hall."

"Wonderful," Draco replied, taking Harry's arm and following his parents out of the room. "I have been resigned to the kitchen at the Manor; the dining room is simply too large to be comfortable on my own."

"Mr. Potter does not keep you company?" Mr. Malfoy asked. "Given your proclivities, I would have expected you to have christened the dining room by now."

Draco's grip on Harry's arm tightened. "Don't be ridiculous. Harry and I have been nothing but proper, haven't we, dear?"

"I'm sure you have," Mrs. Malfoy said. "I hope you're in the mood for _Éisleker_; we had been preparing it for our anniversary, but since our son is in a new relationship and did not bother to give us proper warning, we had no choice but to reassign it."

"I'm very sorry, I know how important your anniversary is to you," Draco said. "I suppose you'll be forced to go out to eat, which I know how you despise."

"Do not talk back to your mother," Mr. Malfoy said sharply.

"Ever so sorry," Draco replied.

They sat at one end of a very, very long table in a room far too big for four people.

Harry was sad to say the night did not get any better from there.

**39**

Drinks with Ron and Hermione were better. Mostly because they had drinks in a pub, and Harry didn't start off the evening by breaking several priceless heirlooms. Draco also had significantly more time to get used to the idea than he had for dinner, and he was entirely pleasant the whole night. So was Ron; he even offered to help Draco get the next round of drinks.

"I'm surprised," Harry said to Hermione, watching the two men at the bar. "I didn't know Ron had the capability to coexist in the same room as Draco without saying something mean."

"I threatened to withhold sex if he wasn't nice," Hermione said with a smile, sipping the last of her drink. "What's Draco's excuse?"

"Anything is better than his parents," Harry replied.

"Ron mentioned you had dinner with them," she said. "That bad, huh?"

"You have no idea," Harry said quietly as Draco and Ron came back. "Thanks for the beer, hon."

"Of course," Draco replied, sliding the drink over. "Harry, Ronald informed me you have been keeping him and Hermione explicitly informed of the various stages of our relationship."

Harry glanced at him. "Is that a problem?"

"Not in the slightest, as long as you failed to mention the events leading up to our first drink," Draco said.

"Nope," Harry replied. "But you probably shouldn't have mentioned that at all, since Ron's gotten his interrogation expression on, Mr. Mouthy Drunk."

"I'm not drunk," Draco said firmly. "I've had two drinks."

"Tell me about these events," Ron interrupted. "Harry's refused."

"As well he should," Draco replied. "The business was my own. However, seeing as we are forced into friendship by our mutual acquaintance, I suppose I can tell you. Harry found out about my divorce, and things progressed from there. I didn't want him to say anything until said divorce was public."

"And how'd you find out?" Ron asked.

"It's my job," Harry said. "To know the business of anyone on the list."

"Ah, the list of current, former and suspected Death Eaters?" Draco asked. "When, exactly, am I going to be removed from that list?"

"Not up to me," Harry said.

"Harry, you were on MuggleWatch then," Ron said suddenly. "You didn't know anyone's business except homeless muggles."

"He may have found out about my divorce when I told him while lying in an alley completely smashed," Draco said primly, taking a sip of his drink. "The specifics are neither here nor there."

"Malfoy, drunk—" Hermione elbowed him, and Ron sighed. "_Draco_, drunk off his arse in an alley. I'd pay to see that."

"Thankfully my days of alleys are long over," Draco said. "Now if you wish to see me smashed, you may find me in Grimmauld Place or the Manor on weekends."

"Or possibly here, in another drink or two," Harry added with a smile.

"Nonsense," Draco replied. "I'm perfectly coherent and entirely within my nightly limit."

"For now," Harry said.

All four of them ended the night very drunk, cementing Draco's inclusion in their group.

Draco, who couldn't open the door to the Floo for Harry because fireplaces didn't have doors, instead closed and then opened the door to his bedroom, vehemently insisting chivalry wasn't dead. Harry kissed him soundly and said that was fine as long as they still got to have sex.

Of course, they did.

**The end.**

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